


Asymmetric Perspective

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terry Boot holds sole occupancy of an ivory tower and he likes it that way. The perpetual quest for esoteric knowledge kicks arse. People are just confusing and besides being a person himself, he doesn't have very much in common with them...</p><p>Originally written in June 2005. Permanent WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asymmetric Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> True story: I have forgotten everything about this fic, including the ship. Then I forgot Michael's last name and had to google it. (I didn't say it was a very interesting true story.)

**Chapter One: Argot**

_Goodness knows I saw it coming, or at least I'll claim I did_

_But in truth I'm lost for words_

(Snow Patrol)

Birds are not noted for their stunningly high levels of intelligence. The phrase "bird-brained" didn't come into existence because humans were excruciatingly envious of an emu's ability to work out quadratic equations. However, everything _is_ relative and it's a truth universally acknowledged that most of your relatives are stupider than you are. On wading in the gene pool of the two-winged descendants of dinosaurs, it can be said that some birds have, indeed, graduated from doggy-paddle to champion backstroke. Owls are counted among the latter group.

Owls had been chosen aeons before by wizards to be their messengers. This was mainly because magical folk are prey to the same vanities and delusions as those who had to invent reality TV just to produce a decent equivalent to an _Imperius._ Owls were members of the group of animals perceived by wizards and Muggles alike to be symbols of wisdom. Why this myth made it a "wise" idea to choose them as postmen is one of the quantum leaps of logical idiocy that only humans can achieve.

Ravens would have been a far more sensible choice, especially given their ubiquitous distribution and diurnal habits. However, after the numerous incidents with the eyeballs -- attempts at eating of -- ravens were unceremoniously dropped. Odin may have been on to something with Hughinn and Munnin, but then of course Norwegians will eat anything.

Eagles, after the difficulties experienced in getting them to stop delivering dead mice instead of letters, were also turfed from the 'Possibilities' list.

In place of critical path analysis, birds have homing instincts. Sparrows fly miles and miles in pursuit of the sun and no ornithologist has ever satisfactorily explained why. Perhaps they have holiday nests in Bangladesh. If they do, they aren't sharing their real estate tips with robins.

It only took the concerted efforts of two or three bright wizards to introduce a magical strain to owl genetics which enabled owls to use that same instinct to hone in on the recipients of letter and parcels. Like most very useful discoveries, it was simple. Anyone could have thought of it.

Those who did were all Ravenclaw alumni, which annoyed Slytherins because _they_ were supposed to be the cunning ones. However, there was nothing cunning about seeing the potential in something that was already there.

In terms of the creatures themselves, the Gryffindors would have opted for something grandiose but hopelessly inefficient, like lions.

Hufflepuffs would have preferred an animal that was quite a bit less aloof than owls were and which, perhaps, could be groomed and have ribbons tied around its neck. Fortunately -- or unfortunately, depending on your view -- few people ever listened to Hufflepuffs, much less took notice of their ideas. The majority of Hufflepuffs were born to be the ones who, when great discoveries were unearthed and fantastic innovations developed, made the tea.

If the Slytherins had had their way, massive efforts would have been siphoned into creating an entirely new creature for the purpose -- a terrifying and magnificent snake-shark-Kneazle hybrid, perhaps. With a name like Eructalion.

Only two or three Slytherins in the history of the world ever managed to completely succeed in seeing the potential in what was already there. As a House, they could at times be as flashy and shambolic as Gryffindors with a new cause to burble about.

In any case, it was all bluster on the parts of the other Houses. They were in fact very grateful to be able to correspond with other wizards in such a straightforward manner. The Floo Network and Portkeying were, at the time, primitive mechanisms still in the development stages -- and also the brain-children of Ravenclaws. It took Ravenclaws to be practical enough to do what had to be done.

None of the wizards and witches responsible enjoyed having their eyes sought after as a nutritional delicacy or having deceased rodents dropped into their dinner. This was why, despite the pleasing cognomen and mascot analogies, ravens and eagles were eventually scratched as possible candidates. It was also why, on one winter morning several centuries later, a parliament of owls and not an unkindness of ravens or a convocation of eagles were winging their way to a single destination.

The parliament was treated to an amazing view comprising a vast, iron-grey lake and a forbidding castle. Unfortunately for them, their brains were designed to ignore stunning panoramas and purple-misted vistas in favour of focusing on things like small mammals rustling in the undergrowth, otherwise known as lunch, dinner and tea. This, given all the wonder that spread before them on a regular basis, seemed almost spectacularly unfair. But then again, no one promised that life would be fair. Or even that it would be particularly long.

Of course, Dumbledore had not assumed his Animagus form for years. Of course, he had nothing to with what happened. Of course, if the owl had known the reason behind everything and was in a position to comprehend it, it would have been happy to become a martyr to the cause. Of course.

*~*

"Oi! Boot!"

Terry looked up in annoyance. He was ambushed by the urge to visit cruel and unusual punishment upon someone. To be specific, the person who had decided it was appropriate to call his name in such a casual and, above all, very _loud_ voice. Badinage of any kind was not something from which he gleaned a cosmic amount of joy. Being strong-armed into it in one of the _library's_ inner sanctums was, for him, nothing less than criminally distasteful.

Zacharias Smith was standing before him, hands shoved so deep into his pockets his neck was practically horizontal. He had a supercilious expression on his face. This was nothing new; in fact it was verging on being a default trait, akin to Harry Potter biting his lip or Cho Chang bursting into tears. Terry had long considered that Zacharias' expression was orchestrated by a permanently scrunched-up mouth and having one eyebrow that was higher than the other. Terry wouldn't have been surprised to discover that Zacharias plucked them in order to accomplish this. He was that sort of boy.

"May I help you?" asked Terry. His voice was only a little above a whisper. Terry was a subscriber to the "Learning By Example" school of thought.

Zacharias was clearly not a fellow advocate, for his next words were at an equally strident decibel. "You know French, right?" His manner seemed to suggest that French was a person and one, moreover, for whom Zacharias felt nothing less than the deepest disdain.

"If you mean the written and spoken language, then yes -- I have a working knowledge of it." Terry wiped his quill on his robes. It was a habit to which he'd become accustomed during the difficulties he'd initially experienced when learning how to write with a quill instead of a biro. He wished Zacharias would leave and allow Terry to finish his Arithmancy essay in peace.

Zacharias had _always_ been in the habit of asking pointed questions, as long as Terry had known him. Often they were so pointed it was surprising that they couldn't tear holes in, for example, concrete. The whole concept of tact was one which had bypassed Zacharias entirely, although "taken a ship to the other side of the world and built a ten-foot wall to keep him out" was, in Terry's opinion, a more truthful assessment. All the same, his aggressive delivery of this latest inquiry was nothing short of boggling, given its more or less innocuous nature.

Terry wasn't surprised that Zacharias had come to him for linguistic aid. Terry _was_ considered to be something of a language buff. He was surprised, though, that _Zacharias_ had come to him for linguistic aid.

"You shouldn't do that. Ink stains, you know," announced Zacharias.

Terry gave Zacharias an incredulous look. He decided it was fair to assume that the boy had been dropped on his head repeatedly as a small child. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to live in Zacharias' world. A world where people, having written essays and notes and diary entries and lists and so on for about eleven and a half years, could be _unaware_ of the fact that ink had staining properties.

After Zacharias' fourth outburst, other people in the vicinity were starting to take notice of his presence. As it was a favoured area for Ravenclaws to study, it was usually so quiet one could not only have heard a pin drop, but also the angels dancing on the head of said pin arguing about how many of them could fit if they wanted to launch a conga line. Zacharias didn't seem to notice that he was the beneficiary of several nasty looks, all loaded with the quiet fierceness of ruffled academics. Then again, he _was_ Zacharias Smith. It was quite possible that he was immune to glaring at this point.

"I'm aware of that," replied Terry at last, when it became evident that Zacharias wasn't going to make his departure. On the contrary, he had plonked himself down on a chair which he dragged closer to Terry's table without standing up. The legs made a teeth-clenching squeal as they scraped along the flagstones. Hoping to chivvy Zacharias into going about his business in a speedier manner, Terry prompted, "You wanted to discuss _la belle Français_ , I take it?"

"Yeah, if by that you mean you speak Frog." Zacharias was peeling the feathers away from the rib of Terry's favourite quill. His air of utter unawareness of the offence he was creating made the action all the more heinous. "I want you to translate something into Frog-talk for me."

"I see." Terry was cautious. He found it a wise approach to take with any given human being, particularly those who wanted something from him. Moreover, Zacharias was one of the more explosive individuals Terry had encountered. He ranked up there with Harry Potter, in Terry's estimation. Explosive people required careful handling, as they rarely had a firm grip on their own fuses.

Zacharias rummaged about in the pocket of his robes, depositing string, two marbles, a broken quill-tip and a handful of small change on top of the wet ink of Terry's essay. Terry marvelled at his unconscious audacity. He also _just_ managed not to kill him. At length, Zacharias produced a crumpled bit of parchment, which he thrust at Terry as if it carried something contagious.

Terry himself wasn't sure that it didn't, even though he lacked the innate Hufflepuff loathing for the "disease" of pretentiousness. It was this same loathing that often carried over into their approach to literature, philosophy, pop psychology and their schoolwork or lack thereof. Terry opened up Zacharias' parchment with the greatest care. He read over the sentence -- which was scrawled in a loopy, messy hand -- and raised his eyebrows.

"May I enquire as to what use you will be putting this -- uh -- translation?"

"Are you saying you can't do it?" Zacharias looked on the point of snatching back his parchment, but Terry held it in his lap, out of reach.

"I didn't say that." Honestly, the boy couldn't be more annoying if he'd taken lessons in irritation at a boot camp. "I am merely intrigued by your plans for the future employment of this phrase."

"Well --" Zacharias wrinkled his brow. What with the uneven eyebrows, he looked like an cross bulldog. "It's for when I'm talking to the Frogs. Obviously. I mean, why else would I need the words in Frog language?"

"Why indeed," murmured Terry. "If you will allow me to be detain you for approximately five minutes, I should be able to come up with a suitable French version."

"Cheers, mate." Zacharias leaned back in his chair and surveyed his surroundings with interest.

After a few moments, Terry realised he'd begun to flick his nails. The tiny sound fell into the silence in a way that recalled that of the first pebbles of a landslide plinking off a sheer cliff-face.

Terry grit his teeth and hurried on with wracking his brains -- the sooner he finished this task, the sooner Zacharias would go away. Then Terry could stop harbouring homicidal thoughts and Stephen's snores would no longer have a rival in the "Most Maddening Sound in the World" stakes.

"With whom will you be conversing?" Terry had it figured out, but he needed to know if the person required the familiar or formal "you".

"What?" Zacharias jumped as if he'd been woken from a daze and simultaneously stung by an irate wasp.

"Who will you be talking to?" repeated Terry with, in the circumstances, canonisation-worthy patience.

Zacharias' face bore an improbable hunted appearance. "Um. Frogs. Frenchies. Like I said."

"And I _heard_ you. However, if they are your friends it will entail a different personal noun than if they are your superiors, or if they are strangers to you."

"Friends with Frogs? Those smelly onion-snoggers?" snorted Zacharias. "Not bloody likely." He caught sight of Terry's astonished face and back-tracked with haste. "Uh. I mean to say. Friends. He -- they're my friends."

"Excellent." Terry was once more lost in the abstract world of memory and knowledge. He didn't let on that he'd noticed Zacharias' gender slip. After all, it would save Terry asking him whether these "friends" were mostly male or mostly female.

Although Zacharias seemed to be rather on edge about something -- and a very sharp, serrated edge at that -- Terry didn't probe. The last thing he wanted was to be brought into the horrid boy's confidence.

There was a moment of blessed calm as Terry wrote the translation on a clean piece of parchment, torn so that the corners were perfect right angles. He pushed it across the table, hoping his script -- which was naturally crabbed and small -- was legible. He wasn't exactly gagging to spend more time in Zacharias' company.

Zacharias read it and mouthed the words to himself. Terry pre-empted his next question by answering it.

"I can write you a phonetic guide as well, if you wish."

"Go on, then." Zacharias sounded relieved. Terry realised he'd inadvertently saved Zacharias from making a fool of himself upon trying to pronounce the translation.

It hadn't been his intention. Given the nature of their conversation and the niggling point that Zacharias was keeping him from his assignment, Terry's thoughts were verging more towards hoping a bookshelf would fall on Zacharias than desiring that he retain his dignity. Still, Terry wasn't cruel by nature and there was nothing wrong with fostering a little goodwill between the Houses, albeit by accident.

Once Terry had added the pronunciation, Zacharias proffered a perfunctory thanks and scuttled off. Terry watched him leave with a thoughtful frown.

Terry was a Ravenclaw. Ravenclaws did not turn away seekers to the fount of knowledge, no matter the circumstances.

He didn't know Zacharias very well. Even at DA meetings, which gave Terry the most contact with him, Terry's attention had been focused on Harry and Hermione because they were the ones to watch in terms of further enlightenment. As far as he could recall, Zacharias had also concentrated solely on Harry, although his aims seemed to be more of the "Let's see how pissed off I can make Harry before he _actually_ explodes" variety.

For all Terry knew, Zacharias could very well be feuding with French people. From what Terry had heard of his opinion of the race, it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine that Zacharias was quarrelling with a couple of Beauxbatons students. Although Slytherins thought they had written the book on holding grudges, there was nothing in the world as tenacious as a bolshy Hufflepuff.

Besides which, Terry was only nosy when it came to juicy information on thaumatological logarithms or developments in Transfiguration theory. _People_ didn't often catch his interest quite to the same extent.

Therefore, Terry never thought to ask why Zacharias wanted to drop an expression like " _Je pense que tu es le plus grand couillon partout dans le monde"_ into casual conversation.

*~*

"Oi! Boot!"

Terry grit his teeth as he shoved a bookmark into _The Effects of Ethnography and Articulation upon the Efficacy of Charm-Related Spell-Casting._ He wished he had been sent the memo when it became unpopular to greet people in normal way. For example by saying, "Hello, Terry," as opposed to acting as if they were at some unholy hybrid of punk rock concert and army headquarters instead of a mere _school_.

He turned to confront the person hailing him and hid his grimace at seeing whom it was. Anthony Goldstein, wearing the smile that never quite reached his eyes, accompanied by Stephen Cornfoot, Snorer Extraordinaire, Kevin Entwhistle, whose hair was green this week and Michael Corner, who was sometimes called Mike by those who wanted a right duffing-up.

"May I help you?" said Terry, the manners which had been drummed into him as a child rising to the fore as they always did when he was feeling frustrated or was interrupted whilst reading. The two events were indistinguishable, after all.

"It's more a case of what we can do for you," said Anthony, dropping on to the sofa. Kevin and Stephen followed suit, so that Terry was squashed up against the arm. Michael stood behind them, yawning and rubbing his neck.

"Harry said to pass along the message that the DA is starting up again next Saturday afternoon," volunteered Stephen, when it became clear that Anthony was waiting to be flattered into sharing the information. Anthony shot Stephen a glare. Stephen merely scowled back.

Out of all of them, Stephen was the one whom Terry disliked least intensely. Anthony was pure malice wrapped up in a diaphanous outer coating of deceptive charm. Kevin was a large boy who had felt the separation from his rugby ball _most_ keenly when he first arrived at Hogwarts. Terry's head had provided a convenient replacement in the early days. Compared to Anthony, however, he was as soft and cuddly as a marshmallow teddy-bear. Michael was just a flighty, unreliable idiot. Stephen, on the other hand, at least tried to temper his friends' treatment of Terry -- even if he never managed to put himself out to stop them entirely.

"Are you going to attend this time?" asked Terry, choosing his words carefully. These four boys could find innuendo in the word "tomatoes". He made sure not to let them realise that this news wasn't news at all, at least for him.

Harry had never reinstated the DA after its dramatic disbandment during fifth year. Terry gathered that this was because he'd spent sixth year in mourning for Sirius Black, the murderous felon who had turned out to be not a murderous felon after all, but Harry's godfather. Padma had been greatly intrigued by the whole story, but personally Terry thought it wasn't really anyone's business but Harry's. Terry did regret the passing of the DA, which had been an excellent opportunity to hone his Defence skills. His practical magic was all over the place, mainly due to his stage fright.

"Yes, I will." Stephen nodded along with his words, as if he were chatting to a third, invisible person. "Kevin here said he'd come too, didn't you, Kev?"

Kevin ignored the question, instead peering around Stephen to look Terry right in the eyes. Terry shrunk back against the seat, hoping he didn't look too much like the frozen-in-the-lamplight rabbit he felt he was. To be fair, Kevin could demonstrate more violent intent with one palpitating nostril than most hardened criminals could achieve wielding a twelve-inch oak baton with nails in it.

"I don't know why Potter's bothering." Anthony, cheated of an opportunity to torment Terry, was sulking. "Lovebright's a perfectly acceptable teacher, so long as she doesn't talk too much."

"Yes, it's a pity you can't look up Harry's robes, isn't it?" Stephen rolled his eyes, but Anthony didn't appear to be affronted by his assertion.

From various overheard conversations, Terry knew that Professor Lovebright's charms were a topic of conversation that, for them, superseded even the "Who We'd Do If We Got The Chance" list -- of which Lovebright was always in the top three. Her hyper demeanour and idiosyncrasies of speech rarely came into the reckoning, because the boys really weren't drafting conversational skills into the ratings.

"I think starting the DA again is a good idea," continued Stephen. Terry silently agreed. "Now's the time to learn some stuff that's not on the syllabus -- _hardcore_ Defence -- before we get out into the real world and have to face down these ruddy Dark Wizards."

The words that lay unspoken dealt with the recent Azkaban breakout; there were now many more Dark Wizards slipping under the radar than at any time since the last war against Voldemort.

Anthony coughed. He managed to fit a leer into it, though. He was a man of many talents. "Oh, I think Lovebright's pretty _hardcore_ ," he said.

"No wonder your results are so dire, Anthony. All you do in that class is ogle the professor." Stephen's amusement carried a hint of disapproval.

"And you don't?" Anthony scowled. He hated being brought to task on anything.

"Of course I do." Stephen's voice was even. "What do I look like, a corpse? I don't let it affect my _grades_ , though."

"Bugger off picking on me, Cornfoot," said Anthony, sounding sullen. "Michael's results are the worst of all of us."

"That's true," agreed Stephen, turning around to fix Michael with a hard stare. Anthony did the same. Terry's seating space was severely compromised by these movements; in addition, it drove the spine of his book into his thigh. He compressed his lips and started reciting the twelve uses of dragons' blood in his head. He found it to be an effective method of combating the rage that he so often suffered from, because it usually happened when he was too far away from a handy pillow -- for screaming into.

"What? Did someone say my name?" Michael blinked at them. "Sorry, I was miles away."

"Up Lovebright's skirt," suggested Anthony, his tone arch. The others sniggered .

Michael shook his hair out of his eyes. As it seemed to fall in them no matter what he did to it, the unconscious head-toss had become one of his signature mannerisms. "Hardly," he said, with a sigh in his voice. "She's not my type and I think I'm allergic to her bloody perfume."

"It isn't perfume," Terry couldn't stop himself from volunteering, "it's a Redolence Charm. And you can't be -- allergic to -- Charms --"

His voice trailed away as one blue and three brown pairs of eyes turned to him. Four faces wore identical expressions of shock that would have been well-qualified to compete with that of the Creator's on waking up on the Seventh Day and discovering he'd forgotten the dinosaurs.

"And how on _earth_ did you discover that, Terry?" Stephen's voice was warm and indulgent, as if Terry were a two-year-old presenting him with a full potty.

Terry bristled at the condescension, but they were expecting an answer so there was no time to start listing off " _One: is efficacious in the brewing of many potions, Two: has properties akin to ?_ " in order to achieve inner calm. When he spoke, therefore, his voice was trembling with suppressed outrage. However, as many things -- from being forced to read aloud in class to talking with people he didn't know -- gave Terry's voice a shaky quality, it passed unheeded.

"Perfumes have a tendency to wear off after a very few hours," he explained, fixing his eyes at a spot beside Michael's head so that he wouldn't be further incensed by the amused expression on Stephen's face, or the contemptuous one on Anthony's. Kevin merely looked constipated, but then again he always did. "In addition, the olfactory neurons in the nose accustom us to the scent so that after one second, fifty percent of the smell sensations disappear. However, Professor Lovebright always smells of roses, even at the end of the day. Moreover, if you have occasion to converse with her for a few minutes, you will notice that the somewhat heady attar lingers when it should have diffused."

"I don't suppose she could have, _I_ don't know, topped up on her perfume after every class?" There was something very cold about the challenge that Anthony issued in his question, but Terry knew that _he_ was the one who was right. Secure in that knowledge, he could have faced down lions, tigers and Dark Lords, although possibly not Kevin.

"I assumed that myself, initially." Terry glanced at Anthony's face, clocked the pronounced sneer and looked away again. He noticed that one of the ship's lanterns behind Michael's head had a panel missing. "However, there were other signs, such as the fact that the professor wears a bracelet with a rose quartz bead embedded in it. In and of itself this would be nothing remarkable --" especially given her propensity to wear more bangles than Shiva, Terry added mentally "-- but if you investigate closely, you will see that it contains a faint golden glow -- the hallmarks of a contained Redolence Charm."

"Why the hell do you know so much about perfume, Boot?" Anthony loaded the word "perfume" with several tonnes of disdain. From his attitude one would never guess that he squandered a small fortune in the Magical Scents Emporium every Hogsmeade visit.

It was a source of no little incomprehension to Terry that Anthony -- whose façade of charm was so transparent that it could have been marketed as window-glass -- managed to convince girls to go out with him on what was an almost continuous basis. Squandering a small fortune in the Magical Scents Emporium every Hogsmeade visit was probably a contributing factor.

"Not perfume," corrected Terry with some asperity, " _Charms._ I did a project last year."

"I don't remember that," said Stephen, frowning.

"It wasn't compulsory." In fact, Professor Flitwick had nearly fainted when Terry had asked if he could do some extra work for his class. Professor McGonagall had been equally surprised -- although less melodramatic -- when Terry had suggested the same for Transfiguration after Christmas. Teaching as a profession seemed to be a haven for cynics and drama queens. Professor Snape, after all, embodied both.

Anthony snorted, loudly, demonstrating his bête-noir of not being the centre of attention. "Well, _I've_ never heard of this -- Rendolence Charm."

"Redolence," amended Terry, and played his trump card. "Professor Lovebright has. She seemed pleased that I'd spotted it when I asked her if that's what it was."

He held his tongue about _why_ he had been talking to her in the first place. It was only due to his overwhelming quest for erudition that he'd managed to summon up the courage to approach someone who dressed so unconventionally, _and_ disconcertingly, in the first place. Unconventional for a witch, anyway. Terry was aware that Lovebright's low-cut, sequinned robes, often worn open over short frilly skirts, could easily pass her off as Muggle indoctrinate of the boho movement, or at the very least a Muggle prostitute.

Of course, Terry got equally flustered when it came to sharing dormitory-space with four other boys who walked around half-naked with nary a blush. Any exposed skin at all perturbed him.

No, it was Lovebright's manner -- effervescent in the manner of a too-much-shaken bottle of Butterbeer -- that unnerved him more. However, he knew from close observation that Lovebright was actually a very kind sort of person. That was why he'd felt no compunction about asking her to supply him with an extra Defence Against the Dark Arts assignment to cover him until Christmas.

The surprising thing was that she was _not_ surprised by his request. The _other_ surprising thing was that she'd refused to comply with it.

"You don't seem to, like, socialise much, Terry," she'd said, her glittery mouth curving into a smile that seemed almost sad. "I reckon you totally need to get a hobby. Join the Charms Club, maybe. Filius told me that you were OH MY GOD, his best student! With Hermione Granger, natch."

Terry had remained silent. The Charms Club centred around the finding and practising of Charms on other people. While he would have loved to dip into the combined knowledge the members brought together, his stomach squirmed at the thought of having to get up in front of a crowd of people to tell them about the new Charms he'd turned up, or of demonstrating them.

Lovebright had seemed to realise that if she continued in this vein she'd soon be conversing with herself. "I think that Harry Potter is planning to start up his little vigilante group again. OH MY GOD, not vigilante. I mean, like, the Practical Defence Army thingummy. You know?"

"Dumbledore's Army?" Terry had said, privately wondering if Lovebright's "vigilante" comment had been a Freudian slip or not.

"The very _one_!" Lovebright had beamed, displaying a bright row of teeth, all of which -- against nature -- seemed to be the same size. "Alby -- OH MY GOD, Professor Dumbledore! -- said that Harry had come to him to have a talk about it. If he does, you should _totally_ join!"

"I was in the first one." Terry had felt moved to inform her of this. Admittedly, the first few times his stomach _had_ turned to an ice floe, complete with Emperor penguins and ozone-depletion-melt, on entering the Room of Requirement. Fortunately, it soon became clear that Harry was going to operate things on a classroom-like basis. This, while still nerve-wracking, was at least familiar.

"That's good!" Lovebright had a very searching gaze, Terry found. It was quite a lot like Kevin's, although it lacked the latter's bowel-loosening qualities. "You know, Terry ? not everything worth knowing is, like, found in a book."

"Yes, I know." Before Terry could help himself, he had opened his mouth again. When it came out, his voice was very dry indeed. "I hear sex only really works with at least one other person."

"OH MY GOD, you cheeky thing!" Far from looking offended by his comment, Lovebright had appeared almost _proud_ \-- or something. Terry wasn't very adept at reading people; their emotions and desires were, aha, a closed book to him. "Well, I think you should make your project this term something totally _different_. Like getting a girlfriend, maybe?"

Terry had no idea what his face had looked like at her suggestion. However, it could not have borne an expression that showed a immeasurable quantity of delight at the thought, given her hasty volte-face.

"Eh, well, perhaps that's out of my capacity," Lovebright had added. "Still, you'll totally ace anything you put your mind to."

Terry was doubtful of that. He hadn't yet mastered the walking on water thing.

She'd patted him on the shoulder -- a maternal gesture, from the look on her face, although Anthony would almost certainly have construed it otherwise. Terry'd noticed the bauble on her wrist, an illustration of which he'd come across in a dull treatise on Charms the year before. That was when he'd asked her if she used the Redolence Charm and, when she'd affirmed it, got into a discussion with her about its properties.

Not that he'd let on to Anthony in a million years, but he'd designed a citrus one for himself. It was tied to a strip of leather around his neck, under a t-shirt which was only ever removed when there was a locked bathroom door behind him.

Which brought them up to the present time and Anthony's half-disdainful, half-wildly-jealous stare. He'd never managed to hold a conversation with Lovebright that went beyond "What does this mean?" This was yet more evidence of her intelligence, in Terry's opinion -- that she didn't supply Anthony with an opening to ply her with sly comments overflowing with more double entendres than a flooded cocktail bar.

"This is bloody pointless," announced Michael, startling all of them. His hair fell in his eyes again and he rubbed it away with an impatient motion. "Whatever the bloody hell smell she's got on, it's bloody nauseating. I'm going to bed."

"What's wrong with you?" scoffed Anthony. "Got your period or something?"

Michael's eyes narrowed to slits. Stephen made to say something but before he completed the articulation, Michael had turned around in a flurry of robes and slammed his way into the dormitory.

"Bet he's just pissy because Hannah broke it off with him," said Anthony, not bothering to lower his voice. Several faces in the common room turned to regard him in curiosity. At this, Stephen frowned and made shushing movements with his hands. Anthony rolled his eyes. He did it so often it was a wonder they didn't rotate right out of their sockets.

When everyone else had lost interest -- and, given that they were Ravenclaws in a common room well-stocked with books, it didn't take long -- Stephen leaned across to Anthony.

Terry had little to no interest in his classmates' turbulent love-lives, but he was well and truly wedged into the corner of the sofa. Moving would create quite the disturbance. Besides, it was ten o'clock; Padma wouldn't be back from patrolling for a while. Terry had finished his homework and for once had no extra study to be getting on with. There was nowhere else to _go_ except into a dormitory with Michael, who was acting like a bear with a sore head, a hangover and veruccas tonight. Terry could think of more appealing alternatives -- such as a yurt in the Andes.

"If you can manage to say it without broadcasting it to Timbuktu -- what happened with Michael and Hannah?" asked Stephen. Kevin, for a change from gazing into the middle distance or glowering at Terry, cracked his knuckles.

"What do you think happened?" Anthony was bored. A bored Anthony meant an extra-concentrated-malicious, no-added-sugar Anthony. "They had a big argument, in the Entrance Hall no less because darling Michael _does_ have this penchant for staging and she called him -- what was it? Oh, yes -- a flaming idiot. Vastly original, of course, but that's Hufflepuffs for you."

"How long were they going out, again?" said Stephen. "Oh, about a month, was it?"

"Yes." Anthony yawned and stretched his long legs, almost toppling a small mahogany occasional table piled high with dusty textbooks. "They bonded over a game of Exploding Snap on the Hogwarts Express, apparently. Such uncommonly high standards does our Michael have."

"Hannah's quite pretty," offered Kevin, using up one of his five daily comment slots.

"Looks aren't everything," said Anthony, a boy whose "No dogs or Irish" rule was infamous.

"No, it's the only thing," Stephen said, punching his friend in the arm. He was one of the very few people who could insult Anthony and not wake up the next morning with his balls hexed blue and green. "Speaking of girlfriends or lack thereof, what's happening with you and Mandy, my son?"

Anthony grimaced. "She's not speaking to me. I forgot some piddling anniversary and she blew a fuse."

Stephen looked confused. "I thought you only got back together last week?"

"Yes, but Tuesday was the anniversary of our first -- look, girls have elephantine memories for crap, all right?"

"Terry doesn't seem to encounter much trouble with them," said Stephen. Terry -- who'd been lulled into a stupor by the warmth of the fire and the asinine conversation going on around him -- jerked into full, wary consciousness.

"What do you mean by that? I don't have a girlfriend," he pointed out.

"Yes, but you _are_ best friends with a girl," said Stephen. "Or has Padma slipped your memory?"

"That's an entirely different scenario." Terry was dismissive.

Anthony regarded him with over-bright eyes. "So you've never felt the urge to -- you know?" He described some suggestive motions in the air with his hands.

Terry was tempted to say, "No, we _don't_ go rowing together, actually," but resisted the urge. He wasn't going to give Anthony the satisfaction of a defensive denial. The only truthful answer to Anthony's intrusive question was "Yes" and he didn't care to have Anthony know that. Nor did he want Anthony to guess just how awkward and unpleasant those fourth-year experiments had been for both of them, how it had nearly destroyed their friendship. Or how relieved Terry had felt when Padma had decided that their relationship wasn't designed to be anything more than platonic.

"Come off it, Anthony," scoffed Stephen. "I'm sure if Terry had got his act together, we'd've been the first to know -- right, Terry?"

" _Ri_ -ght." Terry, not for the first time, was grateful that Stephen was so utterly impervious to sarcasm. He was insulted by the way Stephen just assumed Terry was too slow off the mark to ask Padma out, but at least it was better than the other option.

At that moment, some of the Ravenclaw seventh year girls entered the common room from outside. They were shepherded in by a frowning Padma. Seventh years had an extended curfew to ten o'clock, but it was surely half after now. Mandy and Lisa had always been notoriously bad time-keepers, however. At the sight of his would-be girlfriend, Anthony's face lit up. She merely sent him a look that would have curdled milk from fifty yards and reduced the cow to a singed carcass, and swept to a wing-seat by the fire.

"Go and talk to her, moron," hissed Stephen, standing up. "I'll come with you -- for some moral support."

"To chat up Lisa, you mean," retorted Anthony, but he did as he was bid all the same. The three boys left without so much as a "Good night" in Terry's direction. It didn't bother him; he was used to it.

"God, I'm exhausted, Terry," groaned Padma, sinking on to the sofa beside Terry and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Why, what happened?" Terry was sympathetic.

He began to stroke her hair, which she always found relaxing. He looked up and caught Anthony's eye. It sported a calculating gleam, which was not reassuring in the least. After all, Anthony could make a _smile_ look like an invitation to murder. Terry looked away and focused on Padma's tale, which centred on some boisterous second-years, a Fanged Frisbee and what was now a decapitated suit of armour.

"Perhaps you should go to bed?" suggested Terry. "A good night's sleep will be highly beneficial for your stress levels. I know you've been up late studying this past week."

"Yes, but we've got that Transfig test coming up," fretted Padma. "I want to do well -- McGonagall threatened to throw us out if we get below an Acceptable, you know!"

Terry declined to mention that he'd attended the class too, or the fact that Padma had never scored below an Acceptable in her life. Instead, he offered, "I could prep you on it tomorrow night. I covered Colour and Texture theory last year when I did that supplementary research."

"Oh, would you?" Padma sighed in relief. "You are such a darling, Terry Boot. Or a saint. One or the other."

Terry shook his head, raising his gaze to the ceiling. Padma had always been prone to hyperbolism -- one of the few things she shared with her twin sister.

"Right, then," decided Padma. "I'll go to bed. You should go too; you look wiped out."

"Oh, thanks," said Terry, making a face at being compared to a dishcloth or its ken. Padma just dug him in the arm and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"Night, Terry. See you in the morning," she sang out as she headed for the girls' dormitories.

"Good night, Padma," replied Terry, retrieving his book from where it had burrowed down between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. For the first time that evening he had a chance to read more than four sentences together. Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

People often claim that they get an odd feeling when someone is staring at them; a prickling, it is said, across the back of the neck. This is nothing but superstition. However, wizards have more acute sensory perceptions than Muggles, as a result of the heightened awareness that magic supplies. Terry -- like all witches and wizards -- could always sense when there were other people in the room, even with his eyes closed. It had to do with the disruption of air molecules, the intensity of emotion that all humans felt every single second of every day -- and the magical ability to pick up on both.

Terry knew that someone was staring at him, not as a result of a prickly neck, but because with his mind in the concentrated state required for reading, he could _feel_ an antipathy directed solely towards him. He didn't even have to look up to realise that Anthony was sneering hatefully at him. Due to Terry's own intuition, he realised that it probably had to do with Padma's tactile behaviour towards him when Anthony's girlfriend had yet to even speak to him.

Deciding that if Michael was in a mood he might already have gone to sleep, Terry took the chance and went to bed as Padma had proposed.

*~*

In an Unplottable location somewhere in the Northern fens, a door opened.

Doors opened across Britain all of the time; but only the very foolhardy or those with a special dispensation would have dared to open this one when not invited to do so.

The person opening the door at the present moment was neither foolhardy nor possessing of a special dispensation. He was, however, an ornithological expert and moreover not a bad hand at Legilimency. It was for these reasons that he was not reduced to a heap of smouldering ashes at uttering the words, "Yeah? I take it you wanted something?"

"What. _Happened_?"

The anger of a thousand prodded scorpions, a hundred bullied victims, fifty spoiled children was condensed into those two words. The door-opener did not appear in the least moved by them. This was because he was the scorpion tamer, the bully and the smacker of spoiled children. And because he had the hide of a rhinoceros.

"I am not yet sure. I have several possibilities on file but none of them correspond exactly with the circumstances. I will need further time to conduct investigations --"

"I have no _time_ for your _investigations_ ," spat the other voice. "Just -- repeat the exercise. _Successfully_ , I suggest."

"Right-o," said the door-opener, the scorpion tamer, the bully and the smacker of spoiled children. He whistled on his way out, and failed to close the door properly. Air currents made the lock rattle long after he was gone.

The prodded scorpion, the bullied victim and the spoiled child sat in his chair and brooded. He did not close the door. That was for door-openers to do.

*~*

The deep blue curtains were rammed shut around Michael's bed, so Terry had high hopes that he was in fact asleep. It wasn't that he resented Michael any more than the rest of the boys. It was just that having the pleasure of a dormitory that was -- for all intents and purposes -- empty was one to be seized as if it were the last copy of a rare first edition and enjoyed to the fullest.

He saw no need to perform contortionist tricks to get changed under his dressing gown, as he did every other day. Disrobing in the bathroom was his preferred option, but with five boys competing for the use of the shower, bath, sink or toilet at the same time, it wasn't a particularly viable one. Nor was trying to struggle into or out of his robes under the bedclothes, at least not since he'd had a growth spurt.

No; with Kevin, Stephen and Anthony otherwise occupied for at least the next hour and Michael ensconced in his own bed, Terry -- for once -- could get into his pyjamas in a normal way. That was, by divesting himself entirely of one layer of clothing and replacing it with another.

He was standing in his pyjama bottoms and tugging off the t-shirt he wore, for warmth and modesty, under his robes when a lock snicked. Terry froze, his t-shirt pulled up by the hem as far as his neck. With an effort, he directed his eyes towards the betraying bathroom door. As he feared, it was being pulled open -- and by who else than Michael, whom Terry had so foolishly assumed to be fast asleep in bed? Why hadn't he checked? Why hadn't he tried going into the bathroom first to change, for safety?

Why did all of this _bother_ him so much?

Terry's hands were still crossed over his shoulders, making him look as if he was about to break into a spot of set dancing, when Michael shambled out of the bathroom. He was wearing pyjamas too, or at least what passed for pyjamas in Michael's universe -- grey boxers and a midnight blue dressing gown, which was untied and flapping about his knees. He caught sight of Terry, whose face felt like someone had poured oil all over it -- that would be the nervous sweat -- and then set it alight with the blush that was threatening a coup for the dictatorship of Terry's entire epidermis. Michael's eyes widened.

"Wotcher, Terry," was all he said, however. His words unlocked something that had previously been clenched shut and Terry ripped his t-shirt over his head, turning his back on Michael to pick up his pyjama shirt. The amber bead containing the Redolence Charm knocked against his collarbones.

At all costs he must hide his embarrassment from Michael. His dorm-mates knew he had odd habits when it came to dressing, but he'd let them assume it was because he was shy, not because of -- _whatever_ it was that had made him come over all funny like he just had. If Michael found out, he would tell Anthony and Anthony would tell the whole school, and --

\-- and Michael was standing by Terry's bed, leaning against the post as if he hadn't a care in the world.

And he probably didn't, at that, Terry thought furiously, his shirt slipping from suddenly numb and nerveless fingers.

"I was wondering, actually," said Michael, jerking his head to toss his hair out of his eyes. Terry decided -- uncharitable in his discomfiture -- that it was a gesture which made him look rather like a rabid horse. "I was wondering, d'you know the German word for 'bloody idiot'?"

" _Dummer Tor_ ," translated Terry automatically. His mental dictionary was still functioning even though he was standing there _with no shirt on_ and Michael was standing across from him _with no shirt on_ and Terry felt cold and hot at the same time and Michael's nipples were brown but Terry's, Terry's were pink --

"No, that's not it," Michael was mumbling. "She used English for that anyhow ? what about 'plonker'?"

"Uh -- _dussel_." Terry's reaction time was slower because Michael was scratching his stomach while lost in thought and the movement was, for some reason, adversely affecting Terry's rational brain.

"Nope, nope. 'Tosser'?"

Terry swallowed, trying to summon up some saliva for his dry mouth. African droughts had nothing on it. " _Wichser_ ," he croaked.

Michael looked pleased. "Yeah, that's the one." He shook his hair out of his eyes. "Hannah," he confided. "Swears in German the whole bloody time because she thinks it's rude to do it in English and her grandma's German. So -- she called me a tosser and a bit of an idiot." He grinned at Terry. His bad humour from earlier in the evening seemed to have dissipated.

"Um. Really?" Terry tried. He was battling with an insane urge to cross his arms across himself, but he realised how unspeakably wet that would look.

"I've had worse," sighed Michael. "Still, she tended to waffle on a bit, even if she was an all right kisser. I'm well shot of her, to be bloody honest."

"That's -- great." Terry wished Michael would bugger off with his emotional angst and leave Terry to _put on a shirt._ And get the image of a _shirtless_ Michael out of his head. He also wanted to ask Michael how he failed to die of frostbite during the freezing winter nights, but that would have brought attention to the fact that Terry had _noticed_ Michael's severe lack of clothing.

Terry's head was whirling. His temples throbbed. He felt like he was going mad.

"Right. Well, I'm off to bed. G'night, Terry," said Michael. "Oh -- nice necklace, by the way." He winked at Terry and flapped away to his bed.

Terry crawled on to his own bed and tried to calm his racing heart. Why on earth had Michael decided to talk to him, after years of almost complete silence? Well, he had wanted German translations, his common sense pointed out.

That made two in one day. Why oh _why_ did Michael have to ask for them _just_ then? _Why_ could not some random vagary of fate have kept him in the bathroom for just two minutes longer? Then Terry would have been decently garbed when Michael strolled over with his requests and Terry would have been able to ignore Michael's semi-naked appearance, just like every other time.

Terry groaned and punched his pillow. Two beds down, he heard Michael's voice whispering a Silencing Charm, which could only mean one thing.

Terry was never going to be able to sleep again.

*~*

Terry had not had much occasion in his life to make solemn vows.

There'd been the Wardrobe Incident during which a six-year-old playmate of Terry's sister had dragged an eight-year-old Terry into a wardrobe and "married" him. She had made use of such coercion tactics as were available to her in light of his Action Man's kidnapping. Then, he'd had to solemnly swear to "love, honour and opley" her and endure a hideous sloppy kiss which still traumatised him.

There'd also been the time in first year when he'd pledged never to bring himself to Kevin's direct attention again if he could possibly help it. That vow he'd stuck to with a fervour that would have put Islamic fundamentalists to shame.

On the day after his impromptu tutoring of both Zacharias and Michael, he made two.

Despite a restless night -- during which his stubborn body informed him that the air was positively gelid but his brain insisted that he was hot and fevered and kick off the blankets, god damn it! -- Terry awoke early. He didn't feel in the least refreshed. The snatches of dreams that he could recall were lurid, coruscating things which left him with a residual sense of unease.

He was certain that there was no way in which you could _hear_ skin, but overnight he seemed to have picked up the idea that this was the case.

Deep breathing was coming from three beds and grunting snores from the forth. Stephen's snoring put Terry in mind of the mating call of a Flobberworm with laryngitis -- he had had countless chances to study the sound over the years. It greeted him almost every morning, a less melodious alternative to the dawn chorus. Not that Terry had faced the dawn with anything except the visage of slumber for many a year; like most Ravenclaws, he was a night owl.

Terry snatched clean robes and underwear from his trunk, but not before wrapping his dressing-gown almost twice around himself. As the bathroom door locked with a satisfying click, Terry made his first vow: no matter the circumstances, he was _not_ changing in the dormitory again. He wasn't running the risk of rehashing the previous night's severe mortification, even if it meant he had to get up at five in the morning and go to bed at two.

He set his wand to a five-minute shower alarm and took off his Redolence Charm. The thong was leather and he didn't want to get it wet. Just as he made to step into the shower, he heard the rustling of sheets emanating from the dormitory. In his haste to perform his ablutions before the other boys started beating the door down, he slipped on the slick tiles and came within two and a half inches of cracking his head open.

His wash bore the same relation to cleansing that pterodactyls did to door-to-door insurance salesmen, but Terry was in too much of a rush to care. He exited the steaming bathroom with his curls heavy with water and his robes sticking to his damp skin, but comforted by the fact that his plan had succeeded thus far.

Terry wrung the worst of the wet out of his hair and laid his towel neatly over his trunk for the house elves to collect. As he rummaged in his bookshelf -- every Ravenclaw had a personal one -- for his texts, Anthony shoved past, his robes only part-way closed. Terry averted his eyes in hopes of sparing himself the reactionary blush.

Anthony was muttering something about being in a hurry and meeting Mandy for breakfast. Terry wondered how the two statements could be related; Anthony would be lucky if Mandy arrived before the toast had gone stone cold and the sausages congealed.

With a thrill of white-hot fear that rocketed straight to the pit of his belly, Terry became aware that his Redolence Charm was no longer around his neck. There was that unmistakable, horrible perception that something was gone that should be present. Shuddering, he realised that the worst was yet to come. Anthony, pulling his robes straight, was making a beeline for the bathroom and there was no way in hell, heaven or a hospital waiting room that Terry could get there before him. Even if he did manage it, there'd be a hue and cry against him for daring to hog the bathroom twice during the busy pre-breakfast period.

His heart thumping in anguish, Terry clenched his fists and tried to resign himself to the loss of the Charm. Two weeks' work down the drain, not to mention that the amber bead had been a gift from Professor Lovebright. He wouldn't be able to lay his hands on another at least until the next Hogsmeade visit and maybe not even then. Raw, semi-precious stones were not exactly in demand amongst a remote wizarding community.

At best, Anthony would find the charm and ask who it belonged to, whilst laughing at the shameful vanity of it all. Then Terry would have to keep mum and Anthony would probably chuck it out.

At worst ? at worst, Anthony would recognise it for what it was, confront Terry and use the new, added leverage to make Terry's life hell or something like it -- a hospital waiting room sprung to mind -- for the next week or so.

Anthony wasn't stupid. He _could_ be thoughtless and unobservant, though. Terry was banking on that, combined with his focus on his impending "date" with Mandy, to prevent him from noticing the Charm. Even though because Terry had recklessly, so recklessly, left it right on the edge of the sink, that was a slim, verging on anorexic, chance at best.

Either way, if Terry was to retain any hope of retrieving it, he'd have to stay put for the moment. Training his eyes on the neat lines of titles on the bookshelf before him, Terry blocked out the snappish exchanges of conversation between his dorm-mates, none of whom were morning people. This personality trait combined with chronic late nights went fist in gut rather than hand in hand.

Kevin was still asleep. He rarely made it up in time for breakfast, subsisting instead on his seemingly perpetual supply of Honeyduke's chocolate until he struggled to lunch. This also tended to consist of things that were too sugary and chocolate-dominated to be considered as "nourishing food," at least not when "hark at the toll of clanging arteries" could be used instead.

Terry felt his gut coiling in a most unpleasant and cobra-like manner as Anthony clattered out of the bathroom. He didn't have a word to throw a dog -- not even Terry. He jerked his head at Stephen, who was pulling on his shoes in between jaw-cracking yawns. Within seconds both of them had left, leaving the door banging in the wind. Asking Anthony if he had been born in a barn was a useless method of getting him to close doors behind him; he always shot back the retort that no, he'd been born in a hospital with swinging doors.

Terry decided right then that there had to be a god after all. The continued existence of Kevin and boiled cabbage had given him some doubts on that score. Not only had Anthony _not_ brought Terry to heel for what he'd term "pansy habits" -- these encompassed everything from piercings to wearing the colour purple to having a funny squint -- he didn't even appear to have _noticed_ the Charm.

The adrenaline draining away, Terry rejoiced and closed his satchel. As he made to dash for the bathroom, however, he was halted by the sight of something unexpected. Or rather, some _one_ unexpected.

To be precise, Michael.

Inside his head, Terry cursed. Why was he always leaving Michael out of his calculations? Even though he was undeniably a bit of an idiot, he was a bit of an idiot by _Ravenclaw_ standards, which made him approximately a bit of a wunderkind from anywhere else.

Michael had a very odd method of dressing himself, Terry noticed quite against his will. Michael was perched on the edge of his bed, absorbed in pulling on a sock. His other foot was already shod. Imagine sitting in your boxers putting on your shoes before your robes, even!

For some reason, this made Terry angry. He couldn't bring himself to saunter into the bathroom to fetch his Charm with the other boy there, even though Michael had got a front-row view of it the night before and hadn't slated him for it then. For either the same, unspecified reason or another one -- also unspecified -- this incapacity incensed Terry even more.

"Oh, Boot," yawned Michael, hopping to his feet and taking his weight off the one which only sported a sock. This gave him the lopsided appearance made popular by the Hunchback of Notre Dame. "Found this in the bathroom. It's yours, I think."

Terry couldn't speak -- could barely breathe -- as Michael lurched forward, using only the toes of his sock-less foot to walk. It made sense to do that in small, limited terms, as the flagstones were achingly cold. If that was so, however, why was Michael wandering about in only his boxers? Why didn't he put both his shoes on instead of one sock, one shoe, one sock, one shoe? Terry's logical side was both perplexed and enraged by these questions, which his brain was shooting out at a rate of Gordian knots.

Michael came to a halt a foot or so away from Terry and dangled the Redolence Charm between his fingers. When Terry made no move to retrieve it -- Michael, of course, couldn't know that Terry had as little control over his appendages as did a man with a giant grasshopper on a lead -- he grabbed Terry's wrist and trickled the leather strap into it, bead first.

Some of the electric jolts resulting from this unwanted, unpleasant contact must have hotwired Terry's brain, for his voice finally decided to re-enter the realm of rational thought. "Thanks," he managed. Emboldened by his success, he added, "I thought -- Anthony --"

"No, I was in there after you." Michael flashed him a brief smile. If the secret to Anthony's success with girls was squandering a small fortune in the Magical Scents Emporium every Hogsmeade visit, then Michael's must be his smile, Terry decided. His mind seemed to have turned to soup; chicken and vegetable, probably, with mushy bits of thought bobbing to the surface every now and then.

"Needed a bloody piss, even Anthony can't argue with that." Michael was full of enlightenment; for once, Terry was chary of lapping it up.

"Ah." Terry nodded, as if this would somehow make him seem witty and winning in the way his conversational skills most emphatically did not.

"That charm's pretty nifty, I must say." Michael flipped his hair out of his eyes. "Citrus, is it? Nice. Better than Lovebright's bloody roses, anyway. I must get you to show it to me sometime."

"Sure," gasped Terry. "Although I believe Professor Lovebright herself -- there's a fine explanation in -- class, must go. Breakfast."

He turned and nearly tripped over his satchel. He snatched it up and hurried to the door.

"Terry?" Michael sounded amused. "Were you planning to finish any of those sentences?"

Terry thought about it.

"No," he said, and fled.

*~*

Anthony looked like a child whose lollipop had been used for testing toxic waste and then handed back to him. Mandy was nowhere in sight, which Terry guessed was the root and cause -- or the impacting air molecules -- of his thunderous expression. Terry didn't want to be anywhere nearby when that particular storm broke, so he took a seat at the end of the table that was closest to the door.

It had the added advantage of being within spitting distance of an escape route, even if he did have to put up with the high-pitched prattling of the first-years whose usual quarter it was. They shot him curious looks, but just seemed to assume that he was carrying out some kind of survey on sound waves in different parts of the room or something. That was the sort of thing Ravenclaws did in their spare time. It was also a useful means of explaining away the multitudinous eccentricities of the House members.

As a result, Terry was well-placed to overhear the exchange that caused him to undertake his second vow in as many hours.

 

The hum of familiar voices was enough to make him look up from the task his buttering his toast to an even consistency. Harry and Ron Weasley were walking through the door, dissecting Quidditch.

Or at least, Terry imagined that was what they were discussing. He didn't suppose either of them would look so benevolent if they were talking about Ron's massive, embarrassingly obvious crush on Hermione Granger, or Harry's associations with Voldemort. As far as Terry was concerned, those three subjects were the only ones they had to talk about, given the glazed sheen that had come over Ron's eyes the one time Terry had publicly put forth his own opinions on the links between complex Transfiguration and Apparating. At least Ron's palpable lack of interest had spared Terry having to expound further before an audience, albeit of half-a-dozen chatting DA members.

Caught up in observing them, as Padma and Anthony were not around -- the former to distract him from and the latter to reprimand him for it -- Terry noticed just how skinny Harry had become lately. He'd never been well-fleshed, but now he was positively cadaverous. His eyes were huge in his drawn face and the smile that stretched his hollow cheeks looked more like a skeleton's rictus.

All the same, he seemed cheery enough, although Terry had to suppress an urge to stuff his neatly cut toast into Harry's mouth. Ron had clearly said something that passed for amusing in the mind of a Gryffindor and he, too, looked pleased at making his friend laugh. Terry thought that Harry probably didn't do that as often as he should.

Reflecting after the event, Terry came to the conclusion that there was most likely a lot more bad blood between Harry and Zacharias than he'd hitherto realised. Terry based his hypothesis on the expression that came across Harry's face at the Hufflepuff's approach. Granted, a grinning and smug-looking Zacharias would have been enough to raise anyone's hackles, but Harry had looked almost -- grim. As if he were aware that Zacharias had not come to throw down the gauntlet, but to remind him that the gauntlet had been gathering dust on the ground between them for a long, long time.

Later, Padma informed him that she'd heard from Parvati that Harry and Zacharias had crossed swords numerous times before in their combined NEWT Transfiguration class, which Terry appropriated as further proof.

Zacharias addressed something to Harry. Terry wasn't quite certain what he said. The clatter of hundreds of students applying themselves to their morning meal with gusto was more like a foreground event than a background noise. However, the sneers on both their faces, their undisguised malignity for each other and most of all Harry's radiating enmity -- something Terry had never seen him exude for anyone bar Draco Malfoy -- caught Terry's attention. Hermione, who had trotted in the door at that moment laden down with books, also seemed to have registered it. Her face turned an unappetising shade of milk-white and she hurried over, bushy hair streaming out behind her due to extreme velocity.

"Harry, don't --" Terry heard her warn.

It was too late; even Terry, sitting removed and ignorant of the real situation, realised that. Harry's face had a twisted cast to it that suggested it wasn't going to _un_ -twist until he'd done -- or at least promised to do -- something nasty through the business end of his wand.

" -- _je pense que tu es le plus grand couillon partout dans le monde."_

Terry's heart sank like a stone that had encountered terminal issues with gravity. Some uncouth part of his brain was moaning, "Ooh, _shit_." Terry hadn't thought that Zacharias had wanted to call someone a dickhead in any sort of friendly fashion, even to the naturally rude French. But to use it against _Harry Potter_ in the _Great Hall_? and it was Terry's fault! Not only that, the only other French-speaker in Harry's year -- Hermione -- would never in a million light-years have tendered that phrase so carelessly, so everyone would know where to lay the blame.

Terry chanced a look at Hermione. Both Ron and Harry seemed to realise that Zacharias had said something insulting -- perhaps more because of the _way_ he said it than because of an innate understanding of French -- but only Hermione would know what it was exactly.

Her face was a picture -- of the sort produced by people in art therapy dealing with their massive rage problems. She looked quite ready to haul off and smack Zacharias in his smirking mug and Terry was pretty sure that she would have done it, too, if it weren't for what happened next.

Terry was sitting at an angle that presented him with an almost perfect view of both Harry and Zacharias' faces as Harry stepped in close to the other boy. The people sitting near Terry were looking around in mild fascination, mostly because anything concerning Harry Potter was certain to tender at least minimum entertainment value.

Terry spared a glance for his contemporaries on the other tables. Zacharias' group of friends, among whom Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley were the most prominent, were watching him with weary expressions. On the Gryffindor table, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas were standing up to get a better look. Of the Slytherins, only Draco deigned to show an interest and that was because he seemed to regard Harry as a cross between his mortal enemy and a mobile piñata.

At first Harry and Zacharias seemed to intend only to engage in a fierce, if immature, staring contest. Terry thought Zacharias might very well win that one. Harry was not used to keeping his emotions in check, whereas Zacharias' unremitting expression of superiority gave nothing away.

Whether or not Harry realised his disadvantage Terry didn't know, but he doubted it. He also doubted that Harry had planned to say what he did, but that was because Harry's greatest failing was an inability to think ahead. In this case it had no more dire consequences than making a greater adversary of Zacharias than he already was, but all the same the principle of the thing endured.

Harry's voice was low, but it carried far enough. Terry was certain his own shock was mirrored on Hermione's face, but for different reasons.

After all, Harry hadn't come to _him_ \-- so how had he found out?

"Zacharias," said Harry, enunciating every syllable as though measuring the one-word horsepower of vitriol, " _putain de merde_."

A low sigh swept across the considerable number of listeners. There was, after all, something universal about real, down-low-and-dirty swearing that defied the need for translation. Hermione now looked like she wanted to slap _Harry._

"Harry?" came Ron's hesitant voice. "What -- what did you just say?"

"Me?" Harry seemed to snap out of trance. He turned his back on Zacharias as if he were a stranger he had passed on the street. "Just giving some friendly advice."

"Harry _Potter_!" spluttered Hermione. "How on earth did you know --"

That was precisely what Terry desired to find out, but between Zacharias turning on his heel and storming off and a flock of noisy third-year Hufflepuffs thronging through the door, the end of her question and the answer to it were obscured by inane babble.

"Holy hell, what was _that_?" Anthony sounded disapproving.

Terry closed his eyes and thought about dragons' blood. However, the only use he could come up with was _"is highly inflammatory"_ and he wasn't even sure if that were a use -- it sounded more like a property and, moreover, one that didn't apply to dragons' blood _at all_.

"I think Zacharias and Harry had a slanging match. In -- French," he mumbled.

"I caught the tail-end. Did _you_ orchestrate it?" Michael's voice was brimming with laughter. Terry looked down and realised his fist was planted in the middle of his buttered toast. With distaste he noticed his sticky fingers, to which crumbs were now, in essence, glued.

Funny, he didn't even remember his hand jerking.

"You _are_ the only one who knows French." Anthony sounded like he'd swallowed nails. Michael's amusement at the episode seemed to have gone down as well with him as a sackful of them.

"Well, Zacharias did request that I execute some translations for him," muttered Terry, wondering why his heartbeat had suddenly picked up pace. It appeared to have decided that Terry was hanging upside down from a broom twenty feet in the air -- as had happened in first year -- and reacted accordingly.

"Ha! Brilliant," approved Michael, clapping Terry on the back and moving down the table to fetch some porridge.

Terry's skin felt like it was on fire.

He looked up into Anthony's narrowed eyes and felt much like a small insignificant planet might when faced with a whopping meteorite winging through deep space like a bat out of hell. Or a hospital waiting room.

"Perhaps," said Anthony, "you might consider _not_ sharing everything you know, in future."

Terry mumbled something that could be taken as acquiescence or a stomach complaint. Anthony seemed satisfied, because he turned away and spotted his tardy girlfriend.

Loath as he was to take on board anything _Anthony_ said, Terry felt that the alternative was to pour nitric oxide on the decks. He made his second vow.

 

 

 

**Chapter Two: Malice Aforethought**

_There's a little bit of devil in me I confess_

_Because you want to pick on me and not the rest_

(Amy Studt)

Terry was observing himself from an objective standpoint. It happened to be a foot away from the rust-spotted, toothpaste-splashed mirror in the Ravenclaw boys' dormitory bathroom.

He didn't often get the chance to indulge in an extensive bout of self-study. The bathroom, on weekday mornings, made Christmas Eve on Oxford Street look tame and civilised by comparison. With a little prior organisation, the whole ablutions routine _could_ have run like clockwork, but that would have required the boys -- and Ravenclaws in general -- to abide by what clocks said. They were inclined to disbelieve them on principle; countless mornings in Terry's dormitory had been greeted with variations on the theme of: "It's half-past eight _already_? Impossible!"

Truth be told, Terry was as little enamoured with early rising as the rest of them. Events such as staying awake until ten past two in the morning to polish off the appendices to his Potions essay made subsequent occurrences -- such as opening his eyes seven hours later -- nothing short of inventive and highly specialised torture.

However, Terry was resolute. He got up fifteen minutes before the rest of the dorm was wont to do and, hence, had just enough time to change into his robes in the bathroom, instead of out in the dorm where any one of the other boys could see him. You weren't _supposed_ to do that. It was an unwritten rule that struggling into and out of entire outfits in the bathroom took up too much precious showering-time, and that towels were the only acceptable barrier between modesty and outright Bacchanalian nudity.

It was only a guideline, though; Terry was intelligent enough to work out a simple way of flouting it. His dorm-mates were too close to comatose for at least half-an-hour after waking to notice that, nowadays, Terry performed even less of his changing gymnastics around them, or that the most they saw of his naked skin was his feet. It worked, so long as Terry didn't mind having drenched collars. He never had time to use the magical blast-dryer in the bathroom and water was always dripping from his hair on to his neck.

Saturday, though, was a different kettle of snoozing aquatic life. Terry was unique in that he had always arisen early on Saturdays -- or at half-past-nine, which was the same thing to a Ravenclaw. For the other boys, though, Saturday morning was a thing of myth; something they'd heard existed, but had never had the chance to see to believe.

Terry tugged at his lip, pulling it down so that he could see his lower gums. They looked healthy to him. Most Muggle things -- short-sleeved t-shirts, Nintendos, Penthouse Pets -- he had abandoned with equanimity. However, one thing he had as yet to find a wizardly equivalent for was dental tape. It seemed that, if a wizard suffered from gingivitis long enough for every tooth in his head to rot at the root and fall out, he would simply stick them back in by magic and to hell with actually curing the disease.

Terry, on the other hand, had an innate disgust for putrid things that made some aspects of Potions a peril only vanquished by a mental reminder of everything he would _learn_ from touching the damn diced squid. By consequence, swollen gums and black teeth were things Terry would prefer to see only between the covers of a dentistry journal, preferably under the heading: "What we really _shouldn't_ do".

Terry usually had to floss in bed, due to the time prohibitions in the bathroom. Today, however -- _Saturday_ \-- he'd been able to pass an enjoyable half-an-hour carefully excavating every nook and cranny of his teeth, using the mirror instead of his fingers to work out which bit should go where.

When he was done, he stood back a little and surveyed his reflection. His hair was dry for once, the curls bouncing up like slinky springs on speed. The heat of the small room had coerced him into shedding his pyjama shirt, so he stood in the bottoms only, feeling a little guilty for doing so. In reality, the only way someone could have seen his state of semi-undress, due to the lack of windows, was through the keyhole. Terry doubted that even Kevin was that desperate for kicks, but he couldn't quell the shivering awareness that quite a lot of his skin was uncovered.

It was this feeling that had led him to do his best to avoid getting changed in the presence of the other boys. Terry couldn't tell if they had become accustomed to this unnerving realization of nakedness, or if they just didn't feel it at all. If it was the latter, he envied them. Terry's discomfort at the fact had peaked with the odd episode with Michael and he had no desire to repeat _that_ horrible experience.

Perhaps it was simply down to inadequacy. Terry wasn't in the habit of using his body as a bargaining chip, because he'd never sought a girl on the basis of his physical charms. He'd never sought a girl at _all_ , if it came to that. Padma really didn't count, because _she'd_ initiated that long-ago, disastrous experiment.

At the same time, Terry knew from unavoidable observation that if one were to compare his body with that of his dorm-mates, Terry's would be so far down on the scale that he could mine for magma. Terry was the only one who didn't play Quidditch, even for fun. Michael and Kevin were on the House team, Michael as a Chaser and Kevin as a Beater. Quidditch in and of itself did not bestow upon its players the muscles of a bouncer or a world wrestling champion, but it _was_ a pursuit that lent itself to people who were by nature more active, and therefore "attractive".

Kevin had been built like a walking brick from the start. He'd played rugby since he was old enough to have developed the hand-eye co-ordination to hold a ball steady for more than two seconds together. He still followed a rugby training schedule that would have put the Hitler Youth to shame. His penchant for dying his hair a different colour every week was something Terry had never divined the reason behind; he didn't ask, either.

This schedule had once consisted of Kevin chasing Terry -- and various other "wimpy weaklings" -- around the castle and, when he found them, using them for bench-presses. Added to Kevin's bottomless appetite for junk food, it gave rise to a formidable physique: girder-like arms and legs and a pillow in place of a stomach. Kevin was an Everestian monument to both bodybuilding and the fat content of magical sweets.

Stephen was the tallest boy in the dorm, with the burly stature and rugged features of a fur-trapper from the Rockies in the early days of American settlement. He had sandy blonde hair which lay across his broad forehead like a wrung-out washcloth; his hands were large enough to crush glasses between them with one squeeze. He had always been first; first to get pimples, first to shave, first -- of three, including Kevin and Michael -- to get chest hair, first to have a girlfriend. First to come back, his eyes dazed and lipstick all down his neck, from a dalliance behind the greenhouses. There was little wonder Anthony looked up to him; Stephen had shared with him all he knew. Kevin didn't want to know, preferring his own caveman methods of picking up "chicks". Terry, of course, was not taken into account, and Michael had never needed to be taught.

Anthony was also well-muscled. The term "six-pack" had not been picked up by those of wizarding stock and even Terry was unsure as to where it originated. However, Anthony had one; Terry supposed it made up for the fact that Anthony was rather squat and had no neck to speak of. He was even shorter than Terry, which was yet another reason that Terry should be belittled at every opportunity, it seemed.

The thing about Anthony was that he was pugnacious; he watched his diet like a starved hawk and never allowed anything more epicurean than dry toast, unsweetened porridge and huge helpings of vegetables to pass his embittered lips. As a result, he was more muscle than lard -- which he otherwise would have been -- yet it didn't seem to appease him. If anything, he was even more resentful because of the lengths to which he was forced to go to achieve it.

As for Michael …

Terry avoided his own eyes in the mirror and looked down at his pale hands, gripping the side of the sink. Michael was best described as "rangy" or "lanky" -- anything that ended in a "y" and, preferably, conjured up images of gamine racehorses. Of course, the incessant hair-shaking was pivotal to the analogy. Terry had often gone to the races in his native Cheltenham and the image of nervous horses -- sleek skin stretched over bone and knotty muscle, jerking against their bridles -- was one which Terry had secretly associated with Michael from the first time he'd seen him.

Michael didn't diet and he didn't work out; if Anthony hadn't already been his friend, he probably would have detested him. Terry wondered if Anthony _did_ , anyway. If you were Anthony, there were a lot of things to be jealous of.

Michael was simple. He had an easy way with everyone, even if he never seemed to instigate anything of his own devising, or hold any principles or morals to speak of. He got spots like everyone else, but he never suffered from Kevin's acne, Terry's perpetual blackheads or Anthony's mountainous pustules, which came and went with the regularity of rain. Michael never seemed to worry about _anything_ \-- schoolwork, girls, marks. They either came to him with as little effort on his part as it was possible to achieve, or he let them pass without a hint of regret. He was tall. He was slender, without being weedy, like Terry.

Yes, there was much to resent, if you were Anthony.

Even _if_ Terry hadn't been up against them, there was still no getting away from the fact that if you got a ball of wet string, crumpled it up and then tied some knots in it, the end product would be, basically, Terry. Add some frayed wool for hair and a sapiency spell, and Terry had to speculate whether or not this was how he'd come into existence in the first place.

Except for the fact that his parents were both Muggles and, on one of the occasions when they'd both been in the same country and room, they'd made Terry. The other time, they'd made his sister, Violet. As far as Terry could tell, that marked the extent of their sexual interaction, at least with each other.

It should have come as a relief that his parents weren't "doing it" left right and centre, as other people often complained of theirs doing. It was quite obvious to Terry that people over the age of thirty-five should quietly give up the pleasures of the flesh for those of knitting and gardening. Yet, Terry thought he _might_ have preferred it if his parents were soppy and disgusting and drooling over one another in the kitchen. Terry rather favoured that scenario to the one in existence. The one wherein to his mother simpered down the phone to one of her many "gentleman callers" and his father left an endless stream of answering machine messages to say that he and one of his parade of petite blonde secretaries were "stranded in Zurich. I topped up the account, Charlotte. Adam."

Whatever colour Charlotte Boot's hair had been at birth, the public had never glimpsed it. Terry had once heard his mother tell his sister -- who was going through a Gothic, purple-haired stage -- that Charlotte had dyed her hair blonde since she was eleven. Terry had his mother's nose, but on Charlotte it was sleek and made her look like an elegant greyhound. What it didn't resemble was a nose someone seemed to have taken a razor to and sheared it away to a sharp point, as Terry's did. Adam Boot's close-cropped curls were striking and his spare frame was complemented by sharply-cut suits. Terry's curls were too long, as were his robes, for him to look anything but absent-mindedly academic at best.

There were very few permanent appearance-altering spells. Terry, at thirteen, had spent three long, desperate months searching for one that would make his hair lie smooth and flat, make his skinny chest sprout proper muscles and accelerate the growth of his … feet. Anthony -- who had worn size ten shoes since he was twelve -- had delighted in crowing over the smallness of Terry's feet. They had, eventually, grown to a decent, albeit un-staggering, size.

Terry's search had turned up squat, but he _had_ managed to keep out of Anthony's way and, by proxy, Kevin's too. Padma -- who, with her silky hair and smooth skin, had never had a moment of self-doubt in her life -- was baffled by Terry's alternating despondency about and raging abhorrence for his appearance. She had told him that he looked "fine. Not bloody gorgeous, but okay. You have nice eyes. I don't understand what your problem is, Terry!"

As usual when faced with human mystery, Padma tuned out, leaving Terry to battle through it on his own. The scars from that conflict weren't visible, but Terry supposed he'd carry them to the day he died -- and the war wasn't even over yet.

He transferred his gaze away from his protruding hipbones and almost-concave stomach, trying to banish the faint stirrings of revulsion. The only thing standing between him and a Third World famine victim was geography. His arms were pathetic -- any one of Ollivander's stock would have had more definition.

With all these factors to fret over, Terry had never had much energy to spare for his face, which was, as Padma had opined, "okay". Nothing particularly memorable, and his nose and jaw _were_ too sharp. However, even Anthony -- who had a squashed nose like a spiteful boxer and eyebrows that were the same thickness as a constipated gorilla's -- could find little to disparage in it. Terry's eyes were light brown, the exact same shade as his hair. His eyelashes were the only thing about him that could be said to be bulky; they were thick and long and curled upwards in a way that Padma coveted, often and loudly.

That said, his eyelashes were nothing more nor less than _girly_ and, with a body like Terry's, that was really the last thing he needed. When he was younger, he'd wished that he could swap them for visible pectoral muscles even more than for his own Potions laboratory.

Terry sighed, trying to divert his flood-like train of thought into more peaceful channels. The first session of the new DA was beginning in the afternoon.

His hand, reaching for his comb, stalled. No, that wasn't a _peaceful_ thought; his ever-obliging brain substituted in "intense, nerve-wracking public display". That wouldn't do. His potions session, then. His hand relaxed and his fingers curled around the handle of the comb. Yes -- stirring, mixing, measuring, recording data, testing, repeat as necessary. Peaceful _and_ edifying. Terry loved Potions.

The usual pain of getting the teeth of a comb through his twisting curls without the aid of periodic surgical retrieval soon distracted him, so much so that when a rapping of knuckles came at the door, he hardly registered it. There was a click as the opening mechanism disengaged.

Terry realised with a jolt -- of stupidity, coming home to roost -- that he hadn't, in fact, _locked_ the door. He'd just closed it, assuming he'd be finished showering long before anyone else had even opened their bleary eyes and cursed the coming of day. Then, it had been so warm and he was revelling in the chance to dry his hair and to floss. He'd taken off his pyjama shirt. He'd never put on his robes --

"It's occupied!" he called, wincing as his voice cracked in the middle of the defensive statement.

"Shit, sorry!" Michael's voice. Terry's heart sank. "You decent?"

Michael entered without waiting for an affirmative reply, although with one hand covering his eyes. Terry grabbed his pyjama shirt from the tiled floor, where it had slithered from the toilet seat. He winced as the striped fabric left a film of damp on his fingers. As usual, his shirt had gravitated towards the puddles of water that were the inevitable consequence of putting centuries-old plumbing and messy boys in close proximity. It was now so wet that if Terry put it on, he'd look like he'd gone for a shower fully clothed. Even for him, that was a bit much.

Terry compromised by holding up the shirt like a towel -- his had already gone into the laundry-basket provided by the house-elves, worse luck -- but not letting the cold sodden material touch him. It required some ingenuity and much strain on his upper arms -- little wonder he had no bloody muscles -- and took up a lot of his attention. Not to mention he looked moderately odd, but _that_ was okay. Terry _was_ "moderately odd", according to most sources who weren't Terry. At least he was somewhat less _half-naked,_ anyway _._

"Sorry for bloody barging in on you like this, mate," said Michael, smiling his easy smile under his hand. "But will you be finished soon? I need to get ready."

"Oh, uh, I am. I mean, I will be." Flustered, Terry began to pick up his toothbrush, toothpaste, dental tape and spot cleansing cream, but only succeeded in dropping all of them, plus his pyjama shirt, into the sink.

"Cool." Possibly working on the assumption that Terry would be decent now, if he hadn't been before, Michael took his hand away from his eyes. He used it to hoist a second towel -- the first was wrapped around his waist, under his untied dressing gown -- over his shoulder, presumably so he'd look daring and debonair. He shook his head; strands of black hair flew away from his eyes, but back again in the blink of an eye. Terry, feeling both nervous and annoyed and displeased because of it, wanted to roll his eyes and suggest a haircut.

Terry turned his attention back to his dropped items, his hands shaking a little because he badly wanted to wrap his robes -- or his dressing gown, so usefully situated, at that moment, on his bed -- around himself, but hindered in doing so by the necessity of gathering his things and getting _far away_ as soon as possible. Fortunately, Michael was absorbed in testing the water temperature of the notoriously temperamental shower, so at least Terry didn't have to worry about being the focus of attention on top of everything else.

Terry abandoned his pyjama shirt to the laundry basket with a sense of deep regret. He supposed it was out of the question to ask Michael to leave again for five minutes, so that Terry could put on his robes, which were hanging from a hook on the door, in privacy. After all, Michael hadn't really asked before entering, even, and he simply would not understand such a question.

Terry had just managed to bundle up his things in his robes, while still keeping the robes neat and un-creased, when Michael spoke again. Terry swore mentally; Michael, who was a social animal if ever there was one, had most likely decided that Terry was hanging around because he was desirous of conversation with Michael. In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth.

Well -- Terry, the epitome of fairness, had to reconsider -- _some_ things were, like "Terry's secret ambition is to become a pole-dancer" or "Anthony's really a nice person underneath it all". However, "Terry remaining in a bathroom with Michael Corner whilst half-dressed" had to rate at least in the Furthest From The Truth Top Ten Hits.

"You're up early, Terry," was what Michael said.

Terry noticed that his comb was still on the sink and scowled. He'd have to undo his bundle to put it in, that or stick it in the waistband of his pyjamas. He didn't want to risk the bundle coming undone because of carelessness in carrying it in one hand.

And Michael seemed to think he'd said something that could spark off a conversation, because he was looking at Terry with an expectant expression, his hand still under the running tap.

"Yeah," said Terry, after scratching about in the bare yard of the "Idle Conversation" sector of his brain and coming up trumps. What did Michael _expect_ him to say -- honestly? "Ooh, no, it's actually the middle of the night -- hadn't you noticed?" Or maybe: "What's it to you, punk?"

"Going to the library again, are you?" Michael grinned; Terry stared. How had Michael known _that_?

"Yeah," repeated Terry, imagining the Muses of Chatter tearing out their hair at his less-than-sparkling-repartee brand of replies. "Um."

Terry clutched his bundle to his chest, becoming increasingly conscious that Michael could -- if that was his idea of a good time -- see quite a lot of Terry's chest and left hipbone, and that his pyjama bottoms, which were loose to begin with, were slipping. He could feel his face heating faster than a smouldering cigarette butt in a Californian forest.

Michael wiped his hand on his second towel and pulled off his dressing gown. Terry, wild in the realisation that Michael was _getting undressed_ for his _shower_ but still hadn't _ended the conversation,_ eyed the door and wondered if Michael would think him stranger than he already did if Terry just bolted, right now. Probably not. For some reason, Terry didn't want to risk it, though.

"Still got that Redolence Charm, eh?" Michael waved a hand at Terry's neck or the general vicinity thereof. Half of his fingernails were bitten down and the other half were normal lengths. Terry wondered if Michael was perhaps schizophrenic or just plain odd, but in unremarkable ways that wouldn't come to the eye of the average bully.

Terry looked down at the amber stone nestling in the deep hollow between his collarbones. He had never had many tête-à-têtes with Michael in the past, but if he always went about pointing out the _bloody obvious_ like he was doing now, it was amazing that people were willing to keep holding conversations with him.

"Yep," said Terry, for a change of confirmations.

 

"I was wondering," said Michael, running his hand through his hair to push it back. Terry looked at the comb on the sink with a fixed gaze last seen in a morgue -- anything not to look at Michael's skin moving as he moved. "Would you have the time to show me how to make one, later? I have bloody Quidditch practice now, but --"

"Now?" Terry's incredulity made him look back into Michael's face. "I thought Quidditch practices were always just before lunch." Because the likelihood of the team members being awake and functioning before then was as great as bananas blossoming in Iceland, he added mentally.

"Oh, well, not _now --_ in a few hours -- but I wanted to do a few jogging laps on the pitch beforehand." Michael's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His eyes were blue.

They'd always been blue, Terry's mind snapped, answer his goddamn question and get out of there! His mind and that of an army sergeant were sometimes indistinguishable. Terry was grateful for it. Usually.

"I'd be able to instruct you in the initial construction of a Redolence Charm, yes," said Terry, slipping one hand into the waistband of his pyjamas and yanking them up. One hip covered was better than none, he had to admit. "However, it will have to be -- um -- after lunch. I'm, ah, busy before then. And, well, you need a keystone."

"Hang on," said Michael, holding up one finger before dropping to his knees and rummaging in his dressing gown pocket. He'd shoved the dressing-gown into a corner near the sink; Terry was vindicated to observe that it sported spreading patches of moisture. He quickly averted his gaze to the mould along the cornicing, because Michael's bare back, with its hollowed shoulders, had obscured his vision and there was a dip at the base of his spine --

Terry felt hypersensitive to the eddies of cool air whispering in from beneath the door, which set him to shivering. It was unsettling. It was weird. It bespoke the idea that Terry should never get undressed again, that he should be buried in whatever clothing he next donned, so as to avoid ever re-experiencing this unsettling feeling.

A few seconds later -- Terry could hear every tick, slamming into his brain via his wristwatch -- Michael got to his feet again, holding out a pale rock for inspection.

Despite his uncomfortably acute senses, Terry's interest was piqued. "Is that a moonstone? Where'd you get it?"

Michael grinned and flicked his hair out of his eyes. "From Snape's potion store, of course." At Terry's frown, he added, "I'll _replace_ it, soon as I bloody visit Hogsmeade. So? Will it do?"

"It's ideal." Terry was distracted. "You were carrying that around in your _dressing gown_?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't see much of you in the common room -- you're always in the bloody library -- so I figured I could get hold of you in the dormitory." He grinned, his eyes flashing. "Then I kept forgetting to mention it, or you were already bloody asleep --"

Reading by wand light, with the curtains closed, Terry corrected him in his head. Even Anthony didn't bother to torment people who were "asleep".

"Oh, well," Terry cut Michael off, spotting a way to end the conversation and grasping it with both hands, "say, twelve o'clock, in the common room?"

"Sounds good to me," said Michael. Terry saw, as his brain froze in horror, that Michael's hands were dancing perilously near to where one end of the towel around his waist was tucked into the other.

"Great, see you then," squeaked Terry, and whirled for the door.

"Hang on -- is this comb yours?" asked Michael. Terry almost groaned -- he wanted to be _gone_ , five minutes ago. He couldn't very well deny that the damn item belonged to him, though, not with T.B. carved into the handle -- _or_ pick it up with his eyes closed, more was the pity.

"Oh, yeah," muttered Terry.

His toes slid on the slick tiles as he advanced. Michael, thankfully -- for the sake of Terry's mental health, which was already as poor as a church mouse -- had kept his towel where nature intended, which was around his waist.

Michael turned to smile -- _again_ \-- at Terry as he grabbed up the comb, his inner army sergeant refusing to let him fumble for it. The sergeant was powerless to prevent Terry's _bare_ shoulder from skimming Michael's _bare_ shoulder as he did so, though. He was useless when the chips were down, Terry though sourly.

"S'later, Terry," said Michael. Terry really, really wished he couldn't see the reflection of Michael's nipples in the mirror.

"Yeah," he mumbled. He made it to the door without slipping -- something he had never done in his life, but which incident seemed imminent right now -- and yanked up his pyjama bottoms.

Stupid world. Stupid pyjama manufacturers who made everything for people who were larger than Terry. Stupid comb. Stupid life. Stupid Terry.

Terry threw his robe -- still wrapped around his things -- into his trunk in a fit of inexplicable temper. He crawled on to his bed and threw the tossed sheets and blanket around his shoulders. After a while, he heard his dorm-mates rousing and scrambled out of his stupor to tug the curtains shut around his bed. He felt fatigued for some reason; he couldn't summon up the impetus to get dressed and go to the library, even though there were few things he liked doing more. At ten o'clock, he realised he'd missed the quiet time when the library was deserted and, with a sigh, burrowed his head into the pillow.

In his sleep, he still heard the bathroom door opening and the flow of water against his shoulders -- only they weren't _his_ shoulders, they were --

Potions, said the army sergeant, with more haste than finesse. Let's dream about Potions, eh?

*~*

"Terry! Terry mate, c'mon, wake up."

"Five more minutes, Mum," pleaded Terry, through a mouthful of pillow.

"You're raving."

The voice was amused, male and certainly not Charlotte Boot's -- unless she'd undergone some radical hormone treatment of recent times. Terry shuddered awake.

His cheek had formed a close and personal relationship with the blanket; when Terry pressed a hand to it, he felt the wrinkle-indents tattooed in to his skin. Every muscle in his body protested and threatened to call its union as he struggled upright, heaving most of the bed-coverings along for the ride.

Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, regarding Terry with a resigned expression. In his scramble to manoeuvre himself into a respectable position, Terry had managed to tie the sheets around his left ankle. Some of them had crept up around his neck, so the end result resembled nothing so much as a toga gone terribly wrong.

"What -- what are you doing here?" Terry was as yet clad only in his pyjama bottoms. An excellent choice for bed-related couture in general terms, but he preferred to team them with the shirt for a really dashing combination. When he was _alone_ , moreover. His mammoth efforts of the past week were rendered Sisyphean in face of the fact that the person for whom they were brought about had seen Terry shirtless _twice_ in the span of a few hours.

And -- a few hours? How had _that_ happened?

Michael was wearing his blue Quidditch robes, with grimy, grass-stained Muggle trainers underneath. His face was wind-burnt and his hair less volumised than usual; high altitude sweat had slicked it back so that, for once, it wasn't falling in his eyes. If he could be summed up in a word, it'd be "positively insalubrious", or "in need of a shower" -- but it was clear that that couldn't, in fact, be done.

"You said you'd show me your Redolence Charm?" Michael reminded him. "Twelve o'clock, common room? Any of these words having any implication in a sequential sense?"

"Uh, yeah." Terry managed to unwind the sheet from around his foot, although it put up a valiant struggle. "Twelve o'clock. I'll be there."

" _Terry_." Michael was exasperated, Terry could tell. He always pronounced italics when he was. "It's half-past twelve now."

"What?" yelped Terry. He threw off the yoke of his sheet-shaped oppressor and fumbled for his watch. It did, indeed, read twenty-seven minutes past twelve. "Bugger, I fell back asleep!"

Michael coughed. "Are you feeling okay? I mean, are you ill?"

Terry was feeling anything but "okay", but there was nothing _medically_ wrong with him. "No, no, I'm fine," he assured Michael, shoving his unruly curls out of his eyes in a distracted manner. "I just -- that is, sleep. It ambushed me."

"Yeah, I noticed it has this tendency to do that." Michael paused, pursing his lips. "Perhaps I should leave this for another day --?"

He sounded reluctant, which was only natural considering how many other demands he had on his time. Quidditch, for example. Or hair tossing. Terry had once calculated that Michael spent about an hour and a half doing that every day.

"No, it's fine." Terry knew he was blushing. It was another thing the army sergeant couldn't seem to whip into shape. Terry was starting to seriously doubt his qualifications. "What time is the DA meeting, four o'clock?"

Michael nodded. Terry did some rapid computation. An hour to take Michael through the initial stages of the Charm, up to the point where he'd be able to go solo with it. Half-an-hour for lunch -- no, he didn't have time and, anyway, it would be over by then. That left about two hours for his Potions work, so long as he didn't mind starving to death.

Terry half-rolled out of bed; it was a operation of extreme difficulty, considering that he needed to bring the blanket with him so as not to expose anything that shouldn't be exposed. Or, at least, any more than had, most unfortunately, already been uncovered. "I'll just get dressed," he said.

"Good idea," said Michael, who was grinning. Again. Terry freed the blanket from the sheet and draped it more fully around his shoulders. As he did so, Michael hopped off the bed and started rooting through Terry's trunk with careless abandon.

"Here, start getting undressed," said Michael, his voice muffled by the lid of the trunk. "I'll pass you out something."

"You what?" Terry was _not_ getting changed in front of Michael, whatever the other boy might think. "No! I'll do it, you go down to the common room and get a table."

"But --" began Michael. He was holding the robes Terry had been planning to put on earlier; he'd picked them up in such a way that the toothpaste tube had squeezed open, all over one of the sleeves. Terry sagged; he'd have to Vanishthat.

"You're only wasting time now." Terry's voice was firm and rather exasperated. "Two minutes. I'll be two minutes."

"O--kay," said Michael, slowly. He draped the robes across the trunk and headed for the door. He turned to shoot Terry one last, mystified look and Terry was grateful that he had waited for Michael to leave before pulling off his pyjama bottoms.

That had been _close._ Too close.

Terry was starting to think he should give the wearing-robes-to-bed strategy further consideration. He didn't know why all of this freaked him out so much, but he was aware that, due to sharing a dormitory with three other boys, it wasn't an ideal state of being.

For once, he couldn't think his way out of this predicament, for the simple reason that he didn't know what it _was_.

*~*

In the light of a new day, Evan Rosier stretched his long fingers, caging them and pressing them against each other. The knuckles popped, one by one. The other person in the room twitched a little at the noise.

Evan didn't appear to notice. He was standing by a window, watching sky blush. "Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning," he murmured.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that?"

Evan smiled without humour. "You weren't meant to. Now, I'm a busy man, Peter, so if you could just spit out what it is you've been quivering to say since you came and then piss off, I'd be much obliged."

Evan dropped into a faded brocade chair and swung his long legs across the arm. There were no candles in the room, which was shrouded in gloom and grime. Peter advanced a few feet with the utmost reluctance. He rubbed his silver hand, for reassurance.

"The Dark Lord -- the Dark Lord says --" he stuttered. All at once, the sun lit up the room with a suddenness that vied with that of the light advancing the burial passage of Newgrange during the winter solstice. Given that Newgrange was a tomb, it was a particularly apt metaphor.

The illumination coalesced around the insolently casual figure in the chair; it gave his hair, which was the colour of dried apricots, a momentary and inappropriate halo.

Peter's curiosity got the better of him. "Why aren't you _dead_?" he burst out.

Evan swivelled his long neck, regarding Peter with an unblinking stare. It seemed to go right through Peter, as if he were nothing more than the dust and ashes he one day would become. However, when Evan spoke, his tone was mild and rather incredulous. "The Dark Lord says why aren't you dead?" he repeated. "Why, that is rather incoherent, even for him."

Peter shook his head, dread making him obstinate. The fear that the Dark Lord would kill you, for sport or revenge or idle boredom, was always present. Evan -- wasn't like that. Peter couldn't imagine what he'd do for sport or revenge or idle boredom, or if he even knew what those feelings _were_. That was even more terrifying.

"No," said Peter, " _I'm_ asking. Why?"

Evan stretched a hand out before him, twisting it and appearing to admire it. It reminded Peter of the way his father would finger poison vials, his fingers running over the gleam of the dark liquids encased in smoky glass. Joshua Pettigrew had died of accidental arsenic poisoning in 1974. Accidental. That's what Peter's mother had said.

If Peter concentrated, he could see the light almost going _through_ Evan's hand, and coming out the other side darker. But of course, that was impossible; Peter dismissed the errant thought.

"Why am I not dead?" Evan cocked his head, looking quizzical. Peter nodded, gulping. "Because I am still alive, I presume."

"But -- Moody --?" Peter attempted to qualify his question, but something in Evan's eyes stopped him, the eyes so pale a hazel they were almost gold. No, they _were_ gold, why did Peter think they were hazel? But they had to be hazel -- humans didn't have gold eyes, not real gold like the colour of Galleons -- there was only hazel, like James' eyes --

"Moody?" Evan rubbed his chin with one hand. "Was he one of ours? The name is not -- familiar to me. A pure-blood?"

Peter stared at him. "He was an Auror."

Evan raised his fine, arched eyebrows. The light was pouring out of the room once more, as a mass of clouds obscured the sun. His eyes were half-lidded, their colour now indistinguishable. "Why are you troubling me with old Aurors, boy? They view the world in such black and white terms -- Dark Wizards, I ask you. There is no wizard that is not dark, no wizard that is. Wizards are human; humans are, by nature, grey."

Peter was feeling itchy with all this philosophy. It was something he'd never had a head for. He'd preferred solid, objective subjects like Ancient Runes. He supposed _that_ was black and white, not grey.

"Little fish, your mind is too small for me," sighed Evan. "Run back to your master. Ask _him_ your questions, and see if you do not get an answer you prefer."

Peter looked at him in mute horror. Evan was a Death Eater; surely he knew the consequences of asking the Dark Lord a question like that.

Peter pulled his cowled robe closer to his body as Evan resumed staring out of the window, sighing faintly. Evan was garbed in most unusual clothing for a pure-blood wizard, and even for a Muggle. Peter was sure that those kind of shirts and, well, he wasn't sure what they were -- they looked like pantaloons -- had gone out of fashion in the eighteen hundreds. They were so white that even in the dankness of their surroundings, Peter's eyes hurt after looking at them for too long.

With a jolt of shock that was almost a physical pain, Peter saw that Evan's shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow; and that, on both of his arms, the skin was white -- and bare.

Peter wasn't able to suppress a gasp at this realisation. When he raised his gaze, Evan's unnerving eyes were already on him. He was smiling.

"You never met me, the first time, did you?" mused Evan. "I think I recall Lord Voldemort talking about you -- a Gryffindor. Our only one." His laugh was light and musical. "A core of pure, unadulterated lion you have in your soul, it is true. But no true Gryffindor would betray his friends --"

Peter bowed his head, wincing at the old pain. How many times had he told himself that? How many times had his fellow Death Eaters mocked him for it, even as the Lord congratulated him with veiled amusement in eyes that, then, had been mossy green and enchanting? Even Sirius, the boy he'd once worshipped above all others, had said it.

"-- and then doubt that what he did was right," finished Evan. He got to his feet, stretching in a languorous manner, and walked over to Peter. Peter gaped up at him.

"You really _are_ a fish -- a trout," Evan informed him, putting a cold hand under Peter's chin and tilting it up. Evan twisted Peter's face this way and that, inspecting him. "Quite unattractive, in all honesty. Most Gryffindors have a core of self-righteousness that renders them unable to believe that they could do wrong, did you realise that? I don't think you possess it. You have a crabbed sort of bravery, that is true. Perhaps I was wrong -- not a fish. A mongoose. What form does your Patronus take?"

Peter was startled. "I -- I don't know."

Evan ran a finger of his other hand across his thin lips. "Hmm. You are an Animagus, correct?"

"You're reading my mind!" Peter's voice was frightened and accusatory.

"Hardly, my dear boy." Evan sounded preoccupied. "What form does _that_ take, then?"

"A -- I'm a rat." Peter tried to lower his head, again. He knew that rats were not noble creatures, or a dangerous ones. No matter what side you fought for, if you were a rat, you were just a scavenger -- reviled by all.

Evan's fingers prevented him from moving. "If there were a House for people who felt utter uncertainty about almost every aspect of their lives, it would be full to overflowing," he said. "Your uncertainty is so strong it is practically a certainty." He laughed again and let Peter's head drop. Bereft of the support, Peter forgot for a moment that he had his own neck to hold his head up.

"W -- What House were _you_ in?" A spark of natural curiosity was provoking Peter tonight. He didn't even know why he wanted to know; something primal and uncontrollable was doing the asking.

Evan only laughed. Pondering, Peter decided the music of it was cold; that of a glass piano, or an ice flute.

"Run along, little fish," said Evan, and something that could have been a distant relation of fondness tinged his voice. His words seemed to leave after-traces of colour in the air; but that must have been the sun dazzling Peter's eyes. "Tell the _Lord_ to send me another, to amuse me. Lucius, perhaps; he was so amusing, with his temper tantrums. Or Jugson. Yes; my lovely, blunt-mouthed Jugson." His hands floated over Peter's robe-covered hair. "How is he, these long days?"

"Saul Jugson?" Peter tried to summon up the face, but all his brain put forward was the image of a mask.

Evan didn't appear to hear Peter, though; his words continued as if he hadn't. "Stirling. Abiona Stirling. Whatever happened to her? Did she die, on a journey, as she was born? Did Regis Wrede follow the path of fire? Did he take the crown?"

"Sir, who?" asked Peter, confused. "Are they new recruits? I've never heard of them."

Evan seemed to recall himself, for his face tightened into the smooth mask it had been when Peter first entered. "How could you have heard of them?" His voice was almost sharp; Peter was struck by how at odds it was to his apparent character. "They were before your time. Long before."

Peter shivered. If Evan's words had left colour on the air before, now they left shadows. Peter tried to calculate when Stirling and Wrede, whoever they were, had been in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Perhaps when the Dark Lord had been at Hogwarts? Perhaps they weren't very important, perhaps they had died -- been killed -- early on. Surely, if they had played vital roles, Peter would have heard of them.

All the same … the history of the Dark Lord's rise was not exactly fodder for the History of Magic syllabus. All the same … the names stirred something in Peter's memory. He _had_ heard them before; someone had said them; a male voice. Was it Sirius'? James'? Remus'? The Dark Lord's? Lucius'?

Peter looked up at the other man. Evan had retreated to the window. It was now full day outside, although the grey clouds blanketing the sky made it overcast and hardly worth the effort.

Evan had been part of the Dark Lord's original coterie, that much Peter knew; one of his followers from his schooldays. Although -- follower? Some deep, rebellious, _Gryffindor_ part of Peter's mind baulked at that nomenclature. The Dark Lord's _followers_ wore his Mark on their arms: they answered his call: they did not wait to be fetched. They did not _refuse_ the call.

The Dark Lord _was_ old, but the countless experiments and spells had given him the ageless features of a serpent. Even the Death Eaters of Lucius' generation were showing their age, in wrinkles and grey hairs and skin that was turning to the consistency of fine parchment.

Something in the pit of Peter's stomach turned to ice as he looked at Evan -- really looked -- and realised that he had to be far older than Lucius.

He did not look a day more than twenty.

*~*

Terry tapped his quill against a paragraph he had marked with an asterisk, in pencil so that it could rubbed out once he had finished with the book. "So you see, the key to this Charm is transmutation combined with an advanced locking spell, to actually retain the scent."

Michael was sitting on the chair next to him, tipping the legs forward so he could rest his chin in his hands with ease. His head was slightly tilted and his bright blue eyes followed the lead of Terry's quill with unwavering attention. "Right, so it's really that you're adapting a locking spell to work on smell?"

"And then localising it so that it remains bound to the object, yes."

"Hmm." Michael shook his hair out of his eyes. It slithered forward again a second later. "Is there any particular reason why it needs to be a semi-precious stone instead of, say, a chip of granite?"

Terry cocked his head. It was an angle he hadn't considered; but then again, he'd had the amber bead he needed. There had been no question of scrabbling around for a substitute, even though that would have been the more edifying scenario.

"I'm not sure," he said, after a lengthy pause. He rifled through the pages of the book Professor Lovebright had loaned him, as a certain pertinent phrase strutted to the forefront of his brain. "Yes, it says here that there is a measured link between the colour saturation of the stone and the strength of the scent."

"Grey's a pretty strong colour -- and you can get granite with flecks of mica."

"Yes, but although granite is a crystalline rock, it isn't translucent. If light can't pass through it, neither can the Charm."

"You just made that up," accused Michael.

Terry shrugged. "An educated guess. I don't know _everything_ about this Charm, just enough to put it into operation."

Michael's eyes were shining. "But don't you find it intriguing, why it's one way and not another? I -- well," he subsided, his "cool" persona re-asserting itself, " _I_ think it's kind of fascinating."

Terry, regarding him with impersonal consideration, thought that perhaps he'd discovered the reason why Michael didn't do so well in exams, which tested what _everyone_ knew.

Terry started when he realised that he and Michael had been staring at each other for at least a minute and busied himself tidying his books, willing the blush down. The army sergeant had now gone on bloody hiatus, it seemed -- or was it "AWOL" Terry meant?

"I think you've quite enough to be getting on with," said Terry, stacking his notes in a haphazard manner, so that instead of lining up they slid across the desk. Michael leaned over and retrieved them.

"Thanks," said Michael, making no move to return Terry's notes. Terry noticed that to get out he'd have to wriggle between Michael and the wall and, if Michael decided not to move, the only option would be under the table. "If I come across any problems --"

"You won't," said Terry -- too quickly. Michael gave him the same perplexed look as he had in the dormitory. To distract himself, Terry tugged down the sleeves of his robes.

"Okay." Michael's voice was quiet as he placed the notes flat on the desk.

Michael had patches of red skin along the sides of his forefingers and thumbs, from gripping a broom-handle. They would break out in callus later in the year. Terry had once heard Padma and her friends discussing how erotic Quidditch players' hands were, although they were referring to people like Roger Davies, or -- it had been a few years ago -- Cedric Diggory. It was something to do with both how rough and how agile they were.

Terry had cause to curse having that particular exchange in his memory-bank. Why it had been cashed right now, when he was sitting with Michael, Terry had no idea. He wondered if Michael and other male Quidditch players thought that similar callus on the hands of their female counterparts were equally sexy. Terry thought not. He felt a fleeting, insane urge to ask Michael what he thought, but managed to quash it in time.

"Great, I have to go then, see you," babbled Terry, well aware that his words were running together like molten lava. He stood up. His focus was only on the urgent desire to be anywhere else but there -- although preferably not a place that was in Kevin's vicinity. Terry was afraid that, if he spent any more time with Michael, he _would_ actually ask him if he thought blisters were attractive, which Terry would never be able to live down.

"Where are you going now?" Michael leaned back in his chair to look up at Terry. He was sucking on the end of his quill. Kevin was the one who took Sugar Quills to class; Michael just sucked _things_. Quills, cutlery, grass stalks, bits of rolled-up parchment, his knuckles -- whatever he could get his mouth around, really.

Terry looked down at his feet; his hair obscured most of his face, which was how he liked it when he was blushing so profusely.

"The dungeons," he muttered, shoving his books up into his armpit and hoping Michael would take the hint and _move_.

Michael was well-ensconced in his chair and seemed disinclined to shift. He was either ignorant of Terry's craving to flee or was putting on a Bafta-worthy act of obtuseness. His eyes raked over Terry's face; even as Terry calculated the area of the flagstones beneath his feet he knew, without looking up, that Michael was studying him.

"Professor Snape allows me the use of the Potions laboratory on Saturday afternoons, for experimentation purposes," explained Terry at last.

It wasn't a secret, _per se_. Slytherins were granted automatic access, but they weren't the type to discuss their privileges with other, "lesser" Houses. Only a very few Ravenclaws, of whom Snape thought moderately well, were permitted to broach the inner sanctum on non-school-days. It was part of the deal that "closed-mouthed" counted among the stronger qualities of the chosen few.

"Really? Why?" Michael seemed genuinely interested, but Terry was stumped by the lack of clarity in the question. It was far too open-ended for his liking. Perhaps that had been Michael's intention. Terry had to keep reminding himself not to underestimate Michael, like everyone else seemed to; it was quite an effort on Terry's part.

Terry decided to answer the easier version of the query. "I'm interested in pursing further studies in Potions after Hogwarts," he said. "There are plenty of private laboratories across Britain, as well as mainland Europe and America, that are always searching for new talent."

"And you think you have talent?"

Terry blushed, sensing that he'd committed a faux-pas. "I -- that is, I don't really -- but Professor Snape --"

Michael smiled -- a slow, lazy grin. Terry wished he hadn't met Michael's eye, but the shock of his last question had impelled him to do so. There was something about the way Michael's face opened up when he smiled that made Terry feel queasy. His stomach was _definitely_ rebelling, anyway.

"I think you'd make a great potion-maker," announced Michael. "Probably come up with a bloody cure for spots, I daresay."

Terry's hand flew to his cheek, where he knew for a fact a fresh crop of pimples had just sprouted over the last twenty-four hours. He flushed darkly -- from anger rather than shame, for once.

He'd forgotten, of course. He shouldn't have -- he should have been on guard, permanently. However, Michael's attitude had -- relaxed Terry; lulled him into a false sense of security. Michael had acted almost friendly towards Terry -- but he wasn't. Not at all.

After all, this _was_ the same Michael Corner whom Terry had known for six and a half years. The same Michael Corner who, when on the first day of school Anthony had refused to sit beside Terry because he was a "total swotty git" -- this after six hours' acquaintance -- had laughed along with the rest. The same Michael Corner who had participated on many occasions in kicking Terry's books further along the corridor when Anthony knocked them out of his arms. The same Michael Corner who had helped sabotage so many of Terry's potions in the first four years of school that, if Snape had not at long last caught them at it, Terry would have been thrown out of his class. The same Michael Corner who'd squirted ketchup in his hair without Terry's knowing; that, and Kevin's eggs down his back, had earned Terry his only ever detention: For poor uniform standards from McGonagall.

The list was far more extensive than that. Those were just the incidents that were stronger than the rest, had had more time to build up muscle in the bitter gym of Terry's memory and, hence, swam first to mind.

Fair enough, Anthony and Co. had slackened off in the last two years. Their attitude towards Terry had, in general, faded from firing-on-all-cylinders cruelty to crippled ambivalence -- except in Anthony's case. This was due to the fact that girls had proved far the more interesting prospect and also that, of said girls, few appreciated overt bullying in potential boyfriends. Making people laugh at other people's expense was all right, though. None of it meant that Terry was going to forgive their treatment of him any time soon -- even if Michael had, for a wonder, made him forget it for a while.

"Excuse me," said Terry, coldly. "Could you please let me through?"

"Oh -- sorry!" Michael jumped to his feet, his accommodating manner belying the fact that he'd been blocking Terry's way for five minutes. Terry no longer believed Michael had acted unwittingly; for whatever nefarious reason of his own, he'd done it on purpose and now Terry was running late.

"See you later, Terry!" Michael called after him. Terry didn't reply, only hugged his books to his chest and hurried out.

*~*

There was something extremely soothing about Potions, Terry decided. As opposed to people, for example. Clad in his dragon-hide gloves and an apron of the same material that Snape had let him borrow from the equipment press, Terry poured a vial of bright pink Veela blood into a hissing cauldron of fennel, marrowroot and essence of lionfish.

He wasn't actually making a potion. His concentration was shattered after his interview with Michael and that state of affairs was not conducive to careful measuring and precise stirring. Sometimes -- more often than was wise, really -- Terry used his time in the classroom to throw whatever came to hand into the cauldron, just to see what happened next.

So far over the course of his additional Potions time, he'd exploded three cauldrons, melted the base of a fourth, created more sticky, sludge-coloured pastes than a grouting manufacturer and, once, produced a dark blue liquid which turned out to be an effective anti-inflammatory throat medication.

Snape had happened to be checking in that day. He had had a throat infection. As could most proficient potion-makers, Snape could distinguish between organic compounds by smell and colour gradation. He conducted a few tests, pronounced Terry's mixture non-poisonous and drank some. His infection cleared up within eight minutes.

Terry always kept a journal of his trials. It was fortunate for Madame Pomfrey that he did so, because she could mix up her own batches. Terry had only ever told Padma that the school nurse stocked Terry's cough medicine, but he couldn't help feeling a glow of pride whenever he visited the hospital wing and saw a shelf of flasks containing blue potion. He even wondered if the colour was due to Terry being a member of Ravenclaw House.

Ever since then, Snape had grown even more lenient of what he'd initially dubbed Terry's "mucking about". If Snape walked in now and saw Terry pouring ingredients in a cauldron just to see them bubble, he wouldn't say a word. Well, not many -- it was _Snape_ , after all -- but they would be innocuous enough.

As the khaki colour of the lionfish bled into the Veela pink, Terry decided it was his lack of a special project that was causing all this pent-up frustration and _very peculiar_ feelings on his part. Ever since second year, he had set himself extra-curricular tasks. He could remember the very first; it had been to research each plant in _1,000 Magical Herbs and Fungi_ and learn three new facts about it.

By the time he reached fifth year, however, he'd realised he needed outside guidance to function at maximum capacity, which was when he'd enlisted the teachers' help. And for individuals whose vocation it was to foster a love for and willingness to study, they had all been highly startled to have extra homework assignments demanded of them. Term-long projects had been a matter of scaling upwards; it was just that Professor Lovebright's refusal to co-operate had thrown a sparkly pink spanner in the works.

Terry supposed he _could_ have gone to another teacher. However, he had an inkling that Defence was going to be a very -- perhaps the _most --_ important subject in the coming months and years. Lovebright's suggestion to participate in the DA had merit, of course, but it wasn't like Harry was the most stringent of taskmasters. And as for her other suggestion --! A _girlfriend_!

Terry's knuckles glowed white as his grip on the ladle increased to cracking point. Obviously there were many lessons to be learned from observing the other sex, but Terry had his fill of that with Padma. Sex itself was just another bodily function. Terry was not ignorant of the mechanics of the act, and his own forays into individual manipulation had not been unworthy of repetition. He just didn't see what all the _fuss_ was about.

Besides, once he'd committed to memory everything he'd seen in the Wizarding Kama Sutra, there didn't seem to be anything else to _learn._ Frankly, he was astounded that people could spend hours and hours -- years -- having sex, while at the same time they would give up an Arithmancy equation in frustration after a mere ten minutes.

Perhaps he could approach Hermione about the extra study. Hermione was reasonable, so long as one forgot that she willingly associated with two of the most reckless and foolhardy members of a notoriously reckless and foolhardy House. There _must_ be some investigations Terry could carry out on behalf of the DA. All he needed was a starting point; he could pick up and run with it from there.

Then he could reclaim his brain, distract it from all these images it persisted in throwing up just when he was trying to concentrate. _Particularly_ the memory of Michael either sucking a quill, his eyes unfocused, or Michael _with no bloody shirt on._

Terry's potion was a sickly yellow. Large bubbles were floating to the surface and bursting with loud, unpleasant squelching sounds.

He ducked just in time.

*~*

Terry stared at his reflection in the mirror. Disconsolately, he decided that it was going to take industrial-strength shampoo to remove the last traces of yellow slime from his hair. He had quite a stock -- this wasn't the first time something had exploded on his head -- but he couldn't both wash his hair _and_ make it to the DA on schedule. Much as Terry abhorred the thought of giving people more reason to _look_ at him, he knew which of the options he had to take.

With a sigh he ducked out of the boys' toilets and mooched down the corridor towards the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. One of the trolls paused in adjusting his tutu to point and laugh at Terry's hair.

"Yes, I know," said Terry in irritation. "It's not egg, okay?"

"First sign of madness, talking to a tapestry."

Terry took the opportunity to wince before having to smooth his features into benign indifference and turn to face Anthony. "Actually, I believe that the colloquial phrase is either 'talking to _yourself_ ', or 'looking for hairs on the palms of your hands'," he countered.

Anthony curled his thick lips. "I can well believe that you'd have those, Terry, my son. It's not like you haven't got wrist movements down pat." He drew out his wand and flicked it in an exaggerated gesture. "Win _gar_ dium Lev _io_ sa, eh?"

"But of course." Terry was the epitome of courtesy; no one would ever have guessed that, mentally, Terry was strangling Anthony with his bare hands and rolling him up in a tapestry of ballet-dancing trolls to rot for all eternity.

Padma often said Terry had homicidal urges. She never said he should do anything _about_ them, although Terry had noticed she never passed up an opportunity to buy him a thump-able cushion or a stress-ball as a surprise present.

"I've been thinking," began Anthony.

"About what, pray tell?" inquired Terry.

"You." Anthony was still waving his wand, flexing his wrist. Judging from the number of Silencing Charms Terry had heard him cast after lights-out, Terry was not the only one who had no concerns over correct wrist movements. "And Padma Patil. See, you're obviously quite close. Too close, I reckon, for _just_ mates. So either you're doing the horizontal tango or you're going for dance lessons, am I right?"

"I'm afraid that you are not." In his pockets, Terry's hands were curled into such tight fists that his fingernails were close to coming up through his knuckles. "Moreover, what Padma and I choose to do or not to do is entirely our own business. I have to say that I do not appreciate your heavy-handed attempts at meddling."

Anthony's eyes widened as Terry addressed something that could be construed as impolite to him. His face darkened. "There's no need to be so bloody defensive," he hissed. "I guess that's half your problem -- what you need is a good hard shag to shake you out of your prim and bloody proper ways."

Terry was biting the side of his lip in an effort to keep the wild magic that was crackling at the tips of his fingertips _there_ and not, say, singeing Anthony to carbonated bread product. Terry wasn't surprised that Anthony dared to make assertions about Terry. Anthony was, after all, the sort of person who assumed that his take on the world was the only one worth taking into consideration -- by himself or by anyone.

It didn't stop Terry's surging rage, though. Really and truly, what _did_ it have to do with Anthony whom Terry shagged or did not shag? Did _Terry_ go about suggesting that holding a conversation with Mandy in which Anthony listened to her -- instead of showering her with expensive gifts and ignoring her -- would be very beneficial for their continued relationship? No, he did _not_.

And of course, as long as he didn't, Anthony would never realise how out of line he was for doing the same to Terry.

 _"_ Come _on,_ "taunted Anthony. "Say something. Or are you going to bottle it all up? Wank it off tonight when you think we can't hear you? You're so _bizarre_ , Boot. All that study you do -- what is it _for_? Why don't you get undressed like a normal person? Why don't you _talk_?"

With every imprecation he had taken a step closer to a trembling Terry; by the time Anthony reached the end of his litany his hands were on Terry's shoulders and he was shaking him. "Answer me!" he shouted.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Anthony snatched his hands from Terry's shoulders as if he had suddenly grown poison sacs. Both he and Terry turned to face the speaker, who was no other than Harry Potter. A Harry Potter with a look of high disapproval on his face, moreover -- which, given his history of physical violence and verbal abuse, was rather hypocritical.

"I asked you a question, Goldstein."

"Why don't you ask him?" Anthony's voice was sullen as he jerked his thumb at Terry. "He's the freak with the problem."

"Ri-- _ight_ , of course. How stupid of me." Behind his thick, unfashionable glasses, Harry's eyes were like two shards of broken glass. "Terry, I think Hermione wanted to talk to you. She went to the Room of Requirement early -- should be in there now. I just want to have a word with Anthony, okay?"

"Yes." Terry had the feeling he was being patronised, which was just as bad, in its way, as Anthony's bullying. Terry dug his hands deeper into his pockets, doing his best to reduce the amount of space his body was taking up, and slouched into the Room of Requirement.

Many of the DA members were assembled there, seated on the large silk cushions that littered the floor or perched on the table and chatting amongst themselves. Terry had assumed that Harry's message about Hermione had only been a ruse to get him out of Anthony's way, so he was surprised to hear his name being called.

"Terry! Over here!"

Taking a deep breath, Terry headed over to the corner of the Room that housed the Foe Glass. For a second, the shadowy figures coalesced into one dark, looming form which turned thoughtful eyes on Terry before disappearing once more into the ether. When Terry blinked and looked closer, there was nothing there but foggy shapes. He decided he must have imagined it.

"Did Harry pass on the message?" asked Hermione, pushing her bushy fringe out of her eyes. Terry nodded.

Hermione put him in mind of a vigorous potion -- always bubbling, always pondering and thinking and considering just under the surface. There was also the very real feeling that if you touched her hair you'd get an electric shock, although that could just have been the static electricity as opposed to anything more arcane.

"He said you wanted to speak to me?" Terry tried to quell the hope that sprung in his breast; if Hermione had a task for him, that would solve his biggest problem to date, but it was a hope in danger of easy dashing. Well, actually, Kevin and Anthony combined were his biggest problem, but it was his own fault if Terry couldn't stay out of their way.

What people often didn't understand about self-motivated learning was that even though someone could motivate themselves to study, the motivation itself had to come from somewhere. It was a finite resource. Terry found the best supply came from having people know what he was doing, not so much to encourage him as to expect him to flag in his zeal. There was nothing like proving people wrong to force you to keep writing that extra paragraph, to find that one extra book, to stay awake that four extra hours.

"That's right." Hermione nudged Ron, who was standing beside her scanning the room with a restless expression. Ron was never still until he knew where Harry was. "It's a little project Ron, Harry and I have been cooking up between us recently. I was hoping you could lend us your expertise."

"Certainly, but in what, exactly?" asked Terry, intrigued.

Hermione opened her mouth to elucidate, but just then Harry entered to start the meeting -- trailing a glowering Anthony. Hermione shoved a book into Terry's hands, promising to, "Discuss it in a few days."

Padma left off shaking her head at her more boisterous twin's antics to move to greet Terry by kissing him on the cheek. Terry didn't even dare to glance in Anthony's direction to see his reaction to that.

There were a number of new faces in the crowd, but one old one was notably absent. Zacharias Smith was nowhere to be seen. As Harry stumbled through his welcoming speech, he looked disoriented at the lack of heckling. The older hands were all in agreement with him and the newer members were regarding him with something bordering on sanctimonious awe. What there was a remarkable _lack_ of was certain blonde people wondering if Harry was ever going to stop talking and actually teach them something _useful_ , or demanding to see proof that Harry had the _slightest_ idea what he was blathering on about.

Harry soon finished; his momentum seemed derailed, even _without_ having someone around who'd drop an obstacle on to the tracks as soon as look at him. He paired them up in order to revise the spells they'd learned before. Again, he paused, as if waiting for someone to wonder at the top of their voice why Harry was acting like such a tame old biddy and refusing to introduce new techniques.

Terry and Padma were paired together; further down, Terry spotted a rather sulky-looking Mandy being cajoled by her errant boyfriend into accepting their pairing. Steve and Kevin were together, at the other end of the room from Terry. It couldn't have been better unless Michael were there with them -- as far away as possible.

Speaking of Michael -- where was he?

Terry had no time to look for him, for Padma had noticed Terry's hair and emitted a startled yelp. "My God, Terry Boot, I never thought you had ambitions to go blonde!"

"What?" Terry patted his hair and little flakes of drying potions came away with it. "Oh, that. No, a cauldron just exploded on me."

"What, _again_?"

"That only makes four altogether, Padma," said Terry, nettled.

Padma just clucked her tongue. She strode forward, tucking her wand in her baby-blue belt -- "House solidarity, Professor!" she'd claimed when McGonagall pulled her up for it.

Padma began to tug at Terry's hair, dragging her fingernails along the strands to catch the slivers of congealed potion. Terry submitted to her ministrations, although not without a small sigh. He knew from experience that Padma could be most determined when she settled on doing something, and also that she had a very strong grip.

Harry passed behind them, ostensibly checking for correct enunciation, although the fact that Padma had Terry in what amounted to an arm-lock didn't appear to catch his attention. Terry thought he heard him mutter to Hermione, "Where the hell is Smith?"

Terry's hearing wasn't the greatest, though; for all he knew Harry could have been expressing his extreme delight in the existence of crème puffs. That was, after all, far more likely than Harry displaying concern over Zacharias Smith's whereabouts. Or, if that _was_ the case, then Harry just wanted to keep track of Zacharias' movements in order that they should be as far from Harry's as was humanely possible. Yes, that had to be it.

Terry nodded to himself, remembering too late that Padma's hands were still pulling at his curls. Several of his hairs parted company with his scalp and he yelped in pain, his eyes creasing shut.

"Jesus, Boot, what'd you bloody do to yourself?"

Padma had never spoken in such a deep baritone in all her life, not even when she'd contracted severe bronchitis in fifth year. Terry, rubbing the sore spot on his head, turned around with great reluctance to face Michael. Padma, shaking her head so that her long hair whipped about, creating its own gale-force breeze, retreated across the room, withdrawing her wand as she did so.

"A potion exploded on my head and Padma was getting it out," muttered Terry, aiming for brevity.

Michael appeared to think Terry the soul of wit all the same, for he was grinning with mirth. Or at least, Terry assumed it was mirth, although it was hard to tell. The two people Terry knew who smiled a lot -- Anthony and Kevin -- rarely did so out of pure unadulterated joy, and certainly not when it could be pure unadulterated malevolence instead.

"Terry, why aren't you practising Stunning Charms?" demanded Harry all of a sudden. "Pair up with Michael and let's see you at it."

Oh no, thought Terry miserably, here It comes. His blush had a life-force, hobbies and a pet cat called Tibbles all of its own. The Blush visited Terry unannounced and ever unwanted, never failing to guess the times when it would be most debilitating for Terry to be showing such a weakness. If it had been a spell, it would have been the tip-top Unforgivable.

Michael was looking at him wearing a patient expression. "Well?" he said.

"What?" To say that Terry was ruffled would be like calling a tsunami "rather choppy waves".

"I said, I'm ready when you are," said Michael. He jerked his head so that his hair slithered off to one side, although it was unhappy with this change of address and was soon creeping down over his forehead once more. He must have washed it, because the last time Terry had seen Michael his hair had been greasy and plastered to his head, not all shiny like it appeared now.

"Great," said Terry, trying not to let his voice reveal that it was the polar opposite for him.

Harry was watching them, tapping his foot in impatience. His arms were folded, his eyes narrowed. Terry didn't find Harry all that intimidating, but his complete concentration on Terry alone was unnerving. At least he wasn't Hermione, who would be sure to correct Terry before he'd even done anything, or Ron, who had the span of patience of an incontinent three-year-old, or -- worst of all -- Anthony. Having Harry instead was cold comfort, all the same. Freezing, in fact. Sub-zero.

Terry raised his wand, aiming for the spot between Michael's eyebrows. Not an actual pimple -- his forehead was clear of zits, unlike the line of his jaw -- just the centre of his forehead. Terry hoped Harry didn't notice how the wand-tip wavered as Terry fought not to let his hand shake. Michael was sending him what he probably thought was a reassuring smile, which in real circumstances would have been as probable as a paper guillotine and which was only irritating Terry now.

Harry breathed in through his nose and started rubbing the sleeve of his robes with the heel of his other hand. The noises he created were indistinct and, surrounded as they were by the hubbub, should have been inaudible. They weren't.

Terry focused his mind as Harry had recommended they do and marshalled all his magical strength.

" _Stupefy_!" he shouted, feeling embarrassed for doing so, even though he was speaking no louder than anyone else in the room. A bolt of red light shot out from the end of his wand, hitting Michael just below his left eye -- at the last minute Terry's hand had spasmed.

Michael stumbled for a moment, then dropped like a stone.

"Excellent." Harry's voice was brisk and unsurprised. "Now revive him and practice all the jinxes you know on each other. I'm sure _you_ know loads."

He strode off down the room, waving Padma over to Seamus as he went and dragging Dean -- Seamus' original partner -- over to Neville. Terry watched Harry go for a second, marvelling at his own success. True, Michael hadn't even been trying to defend himself and Terry's aim was disastrous. Nevertheless, it was a great improvement on all those times Terry had lost the ability to speak at the crucial moment, instead mouthing useless syllables that bore all the relation to magic spells as did an electronics manual.

He squatted awkwardly at Michael's side, pausing to drag Michael's wand arm out of his way and retrieving Michael's wand from where it had fallen just beside his head. He'd managed to land plum on a cushion, which was typical of the way Michael went through life -- always managing to skirt the fallout by the merest and most unplanned of shortcuts.

Michael looked as if he were asleep. His head had rolled so that he was lying on his cheek and his hair had been shaken all over his face. The curve of his jaw and the shadowed slope it beneath were his most visible features.

His heart dancing the jitterbug, Terry reached out and gripped Michael's chin for a moment -- just long enough to turn his face up. Terry could feel light stubble under his fingers; it scratched against his skin as he whipped his hand away. Trying to make his voice strong and clear even though he felt as breathless as someone who'd just done a Roger Bannister around the Great Lake, Terry said " _Ennervate_!"

Michael's eyes jerked open and for a split second he looked disoriented, the lines of his face taut. On spotting Terry, who was scrambling upright and away, he visibly relaxed. "Good one, Terry," he congratulated, rising to his feet by dint of grabbing a nearby bookshelf and hauling.

"Thanks." Terry cleared his throat, wondering if there were any yellow patches still in his hair and fervently hoping there weren't. "Harry said we were to practise jinxes."

"Oh, _great_ ," groaned Michael. Terry blinked in hurt surprise. He hadn't realised his company was _that_ repugnant.

"You know more jinxes than everyone in our class put together," complained Michael, scraping his hair away from his face. "How on earth am I supposed to compete?"

Terry looked down at the hand that was gripping his wand, wondering why he was smiling so much.

 


End file.
